


anything please (except for defeat)

by addandsubtract



Series: on the road again [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, POV Alternating, Pre-Slash, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-16
Updated: 2008-06-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What? Oh, geez, kid.” Gerard laughs, and it’s not mean, but the kid half-flinches back, a repressed sort of reaction, mostly suppressed but still visible. Gerard notices for the first time the way the line of his hips is sharp enough to cut paper.</p><p>“Ryan,” he says, meeting Gerard’s eyes again. “My name is Ryan.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	anything please (except for defeat)

**Author's Note:**

> this is, essentially, an alternate timeline au - what if, way back in the beginning, ryan had gone to gerard instead of pete? written for bandom big bang, 2008. there is some discussion of addiction in this fic, so be warned.

Gerard stumbles offstage, adrenaline high and sweat-slicked, makeup running from the corners of his eyes like raccoon-circles. He presses the heel of his palm against his left eye-socket, wiping at his eyelid, leaving black residue on the skin of his palm, trailing up to the base of his thumb. He laughs, a high giggle, and waves to Frank over his shoulder as he starts down the hallway to the dressing room. His shirt is sticking to his chest, and his pants are chafing against his thighs as he walks, and he hasn’t felt this good sober in a long time. The clarity to it isn’t something he ever thought he’d want. He presses his fingers against the white painted bricks, florescent lights above his head, and he’s startled by the waif-thin boy leaning against the wall about twenty feet in front of him.

“Hey,” the boy says, his eyes too large in his face, his bones sharp like Mikey after a hard week. _Oh,_ Gerard thinks, half unconsciously, _one of those_. Every once in a while a few kids with long, lank hair, and white white skin, and sadness in the set of their mouth will find their way backstage. Gerard doesn’t even really mind. “You’re Gerard Way, right?” He asks like he already knows, and he does. Gerard can tell from the half-awed look on his face, one hand deep in the pocket of his pants.

“That’s me,” Gerard says, scrubbing at his eyes again, makeup on his fingers in a way that makes him want to paint. Or, possibly, run it over the blank canvas of the boy’s skin. He doesn’t.

“Um, I just,” the kid says, looking at his ragged sneakers, newsboy cap pulled down low over his forehead. “Here.” He holds out a CD, homemade case, the words _demo songs – 1_ written out in sharpie on the plastic cover.

“What’s this?” Gerard asks, mostly curious. The adrenaline is still rushing through his veins, making him jittery, twitchy, and he fiddles with a lock of his hair, pushing it behind his ear.

“My demo – my band’s demo. Sort of.” The kid doesn’t look up, but the edges of his mouth lift enough that his voice sounds wrong – too monotone for what should be excitement. Passion. Something. “Just – do you think you could listen? Tell me what you think. My email’s on the inside cover.” He bites his lower lip, and finally meets Gerard’s eyes, and Gerard tries not to promise anything he can’t keep, so.

“I’ll do my best. We’re on tour, obviously, and that gets a little crazy. But, yeah. I’ll give it a listen.” Gerard just hopes he’s not inadvertently lying.

“I’d just be – really fucking grateful,” the kid says, and the only emphasis at all in the sentence is on the word _fucking_ , just enough for Gerard to know it’s possible, and the kid is looking up at Gerard with hope and something else, something vaguely desperate in his face and Gerard realizes then that maybe, maybe he’s being sort of awkwardly propositioned. “I’d do – basically anything,” the kid says. He looks determined more than anything else.

“What? Oh, geez, kid.” Gerard laughs, and it’s not mean, but the kid half-flinches back, a repressed sort of reaction, mostly suppressed but still visible. Gerard notices for the first time the way the line of his hips is sharp enough to cut paper.

“Ryan,” he says, meeting Gerard’s eyes again. “My name is Ryan.”

Gerard can’t say that, in this kid’s position, he’d have protested sucking a few cocks to get what he wanted. To have the chance at what he wanted. Gerard just never, ever wants to be the kind of person who would take advantage of that.

“I’ll listen to it, then, Ryan,” Gerard says, tucking the CD in the back pocket of his pants.

Ryan nods, and Gerard has to wonder how much Ryan actually believes him.

+

“Fuck,” Ryan mutters to himself as Gerard fucking _Way_ walks away down the hall. “You fucking idiot.” He clenches his hands into fists at his sides, and wonders if he could’ve sounded any more fucking terrified than he actually had. He consciously makes the effort to unclench his hands and wonders when the erratic beating of his heart is going to slow down. He takes a deep breath, and goes to find Spencer.

Spencer’s waiting for him in the parking lot, leaned up against the hood of his mom’s car, hips tilted to the side like they always are. Ryan sits carefully next to him, and Spencer knows him well enough to press his thumb in a careful line down Ryan’s shoulder blade, but not to hug him, not to touch him in any way that means anything real. Ryan appreciates it more than he’s ever actually been able to say – he just has to trust that Spencer knows how to read his silences, the spaces between sentences. He thinks that if he can’t trust Spencer with that, he can’t trust anyone.

“Well?” Spencer asks, and if Ryan didn’t know him so well, he’d say the tone in Spencer’s voice is impatience, but Ryan does, and Spencer is possibly as scared as Ryan is. Ryan knows, the guilt settling low in his chest, that Spencer is still going to be the one who has to tell Brendon and Brent, either way. He nudges Spencer with his shoulder.

“He said –” Ryan starts, “he said he’d listen to it.”

“Yeah?” If Ryan looked over, he knows he’d see Spencer raising his eyebrows. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he stares out at the rows of Camrys and Avalons and Elements in front of him, shivering at the cool night air against the skin of his arms.

“Yeah,” he says.

It’s a start.

+

Gerard almost, almost, almost forgets about it, the CD stowed carefully in the side pocket of his backpack, and feels like an asshole or, maybe, something worse. He’s holding the kid’s dreams between his fingers and can’t even be bothered to treat them with care.

He looks at the handwriting, sharp and spiked, the stroke of the d reaching high, the loop of the g dipping low. Angular and brittle, angry. He’s almost not surprised.

He pops it into his discman, shoving his headphones carelessly over his ears, curling up in his bunk as he listens to all three tracks, bare feet burrowed under his covers, curtains drawn. He hasn’t told anyone about this, yet, and he’s not sure, at first, if he’ll have to. Then he gets to the last track.

“Shit,” he says, out loud, and cups his fingers over the headphones, pressing them closer to his ears. It’s not that they’re fabulous or polished in any sense of the word, just that Gerard remembers this – that feeling that any audience mattered, that the seventeen people who showed up deserved as good a show as the hundred and fifty the evening before, as the fifty-two the evening before that. The feeling that this was what he was meant to say, had to, even, and anyone who would listen was worth it. He pushes the pause button and opens up his discman again, staring at the writing, clear and clean, on the CD’s reflective surface. Then he pulls his cell out of his jeans and presses the third number in his speed dial.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end is scratchy and sleep-deprived, but not entirely without humor – long-suffering, almost.

“Brian?” he says, pressing his fingers against the sharp handwriting, “there’s uh. Something I think you should hear.”

+

The first week of non-response is the worst for Ryan. He spends the first three days of it checking his email obsessively, until Spencer pulls him away with the promise of band rehearsal, hands carefully pressing against his shoulder blades, fingertips ten points of reluctant heat sinking through the cotton of his t-shirt. After that, he stops expecting a reply at all – he knows that he shouldn’t have bothered hoping for that first week, but even he has his moments of optimism, however unfounded. When three weeks go by without any sort of sign, Ryan accepts that he is foolish, and that it was always too much to think that it could be this easy – to think that anyone would want them. Him, actually, if he’s honest about it, and he tries his hardest to be.

Then he gets Gerard’s email.

Or, rather, the email from Gerard’s manager.

 _Hey,_ it says, _this is Brian Schechter, My Chem’s manager. Gerard sent me your demo, and it sounds pretty good. If you aren’t busy, we should meet up. Drop me a line or give me a call – my number is (609) 882 - 3417._

Like they’d have anything better to do than meet with My Chem’s manager. Ryan would roll his eyes at the thought if he had any emotion left in him to be flippant with. His fingers clutch into the edge of his desk, nails digging into the wood, and he’s looking over his shoulder for Spencer, his mouth soundlessly open.

It takes him a few long minutes to get himself together enough to speak.

“Spencer,” he says, not as loudly as he might normally. He hears the music stop as Spencer pauses his game of Halo in the next room, poking his head around the doorframe. Ryan sees the moment that Spencer registers the expression on his face, and even if he’s not exactly sure what he looks like, he knows Spencer’s over-protective face.

“What?” Spencer asks, his voice wary. “What happened?” 

“I don’t –” Ryan starts, but realizes halfway through that he has no idea how to finish the sentence, and cuts himself off. He holds out his hand, beckoning Spencer closer. “I got this – Spencer. Look at it.” Spencer throws him an unreadable look, but approaches, leaning over Ryan’s shoulder, his breath tickling Ryan’s hair and the side of his neck, the shell of his ear.

“Holy fuck,” Spencer says. “Holy fuck, Ryan, what the shit.”

“I don’t even fucking know,” Ryan says. He looks up at Spencer, who is still hovering over his shoulder, eyes wide and staring at the white screen. Ryan wraps his fingers around Spencer’s wrist, anchoring himself in space and place, and he sucks in a quick breath through his teeth. “What do I do?” Ryan asks, staring at his fingers against Spencer’s skin, and he can feel Spencer turn to look at him.

“You fucking email him back, dickface,” Spencer says, and there’s a smile in his voice, wide and beaming. Ryan can smell it, taste it, almost, before he looks up and sees it, Spencer grinning at him, saying without words _dude, fucking My Chem’s manager_. Emphasis on every syllable.

Ryan hits reply, types quickly, _hey, yeah, sure. give us a time and place, and we’ll be there.  
– Ryan Ross_

He’s pretty sure it sounds completely desperate, too much _we’ll do fucking anything, we will_ for comfort, but it’s not like that isn’t true.

They’re fucking desperate. They are.

Ryan just wants to be able to look at Spencer and Brendon and Brent and think _maybe, maybe we’re worth it_ , and have there actually be some chance.

+

It takes Brian about two weeks to work out a suitable time – Gerard knows this because he’s the reason it takes so long. Brian calls him from Brooklyn, a week after Gerard emails him the demo. It’s 9:00 am and way too early to be awake, but My Chem is on the west coast (somewhere between Washington State and California, he thinks), and it’s three hours later where Brian is.

“Hey,” Brian says, “you awake?” Gerard can hear the small smile in Brian’s voice. Brian has always been a sarcastic hardass, berating them for the things that are, yes, technically their fault, but Gerard can’t always help the shit that goes down on tour. Gerard thinks that Brian’s just happy that their problems are now contained to how bad the bus smells and not Gerard puking in the parking lot and snorting coke off the sink in the bathroom. Gerard can see the smirk on Brian’s face, the slight tilt of the right side of his mouth, uneven around his lip ring.

“No, not really,” Gerard says, yawning. He’s on the couch in the lounge, not for any particular reason other than that’s where he happened to fall asleep. He scrubs a hand over his face, tangling up into his dirty hair. He’s been shower-less for five days and counting, and he needs coffee if he’s going to stay awake for any length of time.

“Sorry,” Brian says, and Gerard doesn’t believe him, but doesn’t hold it against him, either. Not after the year they’ve had. Gerard sits up and looks around, but he’s alone in the lounge – the TV is still on, the screen glowing blue, signifying that Frank or Bob or someone had left the DVD player on when they went to bed. Gerard tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder, stumbling over to the makeshift kitchen. “I emailed your kid Ryan,” Brian continues, and Gerard makes a vague noise of affirmation as he spoons grounds into the coffee maker. “They’re up for a meeting.” Gerard refrains from rolling his eyes – of course they are. They’d be sort of dumb not to be. Ryan didn’t appear dumb, only desperate and young, and that’s something Gerard can definitely sympathize with. He leans against the counter, scratching at his stomach and holding in a yawn.

Gerard doesn’t normally pay much attention to Brian’s other musical endeavors. He knows that My Chemical Romance comes first, because while Brian tours occasionally with other bands, among other things, he’s still their manager. That’s about all Gerard needs to know – that Brian will be there when they need him. He has no reason to doubt it so far.

“I want to go with you to meet them,” he says, watching the coffee brew. He can hear Brian breathing on the other end of the phone as he processes, soft and even. “I want to see them play.”

“Okay,” Brian says, after a few moments of silence. Gerard can imagine the furrow in his brow as he thinks about scheduling and organizing, finagling their already too-crowded calendar. “I’ll see what I can do. You guys should have two days off in a row, eventually.”

“Thanks,” Gerard says. He’s not used to being the first awake, and the quiet of the bus makes him not want to talk, to instead sit back and listen to Brian breathe. It’s calming.

“No problem,” Brian says. Gerard waits for the coffee to finish.

+

Brian meets up with the tour procession somewhere in western Texas, and they decide to drive to Vegas. They have two days off and the next show is actually in New Mexico, so it’s not really that out of the way.

Brian insists on doing most of the driving, so Gerard just curls up in the passenger seat and watches Brian. He changes the CD every so often, drinks coffee, tracks the passing of highways and road signs. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but Gerard has talked to Brian as little as possible for the past six months or so. He has a lot to make up for, and he doesn’t know how to start, or where – and, somehow, Brian is the hardest out of all of them. Mikey forgave him before he even asked, and Frank wasn’t far behind. Ray had just said never to do it again, and Bob wasn’t band, then, and so it didn’t matter to him. Sometimes Gerard’s grateful to have someone he hasn’t had to ask forgiveness from, yet.

Brian, though, Brian was on the phone with him for hours, half of which he doesn’t even actually remember – thousands of words lost completely, spilled carelessly from his lips, and he doubts he’ll ever be able to retrieve them. He remembers giggling when Brian tried to talk to him, wrapping his fingers in the sleeve of Brian’s shirt and swinging himself in close, tucking his lips under Brian’s ear, against the riot man in blue and red on his neck. Brian never leaned in and never moved away, just stood there solid until Gerard got bored or distracted.

“Gerard,” he’d say, “you have to stop this.” 

And Gerard would just press his finger against the ring in the center of Brian’s lower lip, and he’d say, “Shut up.”

Brian’s not saying anything now, though, just staring straight ahead, eyes on the road. Gerard takes a sip of his coffee and rolls down his window, fumbling for a cigarette in the pocket of his jacket. He breathes in as he lights it, watching the end catch and then turning to Brian.

“Want one?” he asks, voice carefully even. Brian glances at him, eyebrows raised.

“Sure,” he says. Gerard holds one out for him, hands him the lighter, watching the relaxing of his shoulders as he gets it lit, sucking smoke into his lungs. Gerard wonders if asking for forgiveness this late in the game is even possible.

+

Ryan writes almost non-stop for the duration of the five weeks, curled up on Spencer’s bed, or at the kitchen table when his father is out, or sitting at the counter in the Smoothie Shack while Brendon is at work. He pushes the streams of unpolished and unedited words at Brendon during breaks and doesn’t meet his eyes. He knows that Brendon treats them with care, always, but he still can’t watch, just in case. Just in case this time is different, and Brendon doesn’t get it – it hasn’t happened yet, but Ryan’s still waiting. He can’t help it. 

They practice ruthlessly in the evenings when Brendon gets off of work, and Spencer is finished babysitting. Brent always beats Ryan to the practice space, smiling crookedly and opening the door with one hand, his bass fisted in the other. Brent plays almost entirely by ear, but he remembers his parts and constructs new ones, and when Brendon tells him to adjust the riff by a note or two, he remembers that also. Brendon thinks in piano, in arpeggios and chords, key signatures and eighth-quarter-half notes. He’s the one who writes everything down on neatly lined paper, tiny circles of notes, sharps and flats, and neither Ryan nor Brent can read them, but it doesn’t matter as long as Brendon can. Spencer doesn’t need any of them – he gets it right, he always gets it right, and he sighs, rolling his eyes and waiting for the rest of them to catch up. Some of their songs have drum parts before they have guitar parts, just lyrics and the skeleton of a melody, and a fully formed rhythm section.

They don’t talk about it, but as the meeting draws closer, they spend more time practicing and less time sleeping, less time communicating outside the scope of notes and riffs and verse-chorus-verse construction. They sleep in the practice space when Brendon goes to work, Ryan tucking his head under Spencer’s chin, curled up on a beanbag chair on the floor.

+

By the time the date actually comes around, they have two and a half more songs just about finished, two almost there, and another three just in the beginning stages. Ryan is proud and terrified and he stares at Spencer’s face while he tries to catch his breath, waiting for the door to open – or not, he knows. They might never show.

He can see out of the corner of his eye when Brent reaches over to steady Brendon’s knee, which is bouncing under the table. Spencer sighs and shakes his hair out of his face – besides that Ryan can see his fingers white-knuckled against the tabletop, Spencer’s nerves are almost completely unnoticeable. Ryan is mostly grateful, and a little guilty – it is always Spencer who feels he has to take the brunt. It’s probably true that he actually does, at least about some things. Ryan feels guiltier for this.

When the knock comes, Ryan jolts. He’s pessimistic by nature, and assuming that they’re not going to come is easier than assuming that they are and being disappointed. Ryan will always choose surprise over disappointment; it comes with expecting not to get what he wants. Ryan is really very good at that.

It’s Spencer who stands to get the door, and none of them are surprised. Ryan can feel the bowl of cereal he had for breakfast churning in his stomach, and he breathes in quickly through his mouth, almost a short gasp. Brendon is tapping his fingers rapidly on the tabletop. Brent is staring at the door, his lips between his teeth.

“Hi,” Spencer says when he opens the door. Ryan can see the careful curvature of his shoulders, his back straightened more out of a desire to be presentable than actual natural posture. He doubts that anyone else would even notice.

“Hi,” says a voice from just outside, half gruff and half amused. The man who appears through the entrance is not what Ryan is expecting – he’s tiny, tinier than Brendon, even, and covered in tattoos. His jeans are probably more hole than fabric, and he’s wearing a t-shirt. His smirk bends around his lip ring, saying something that Ryan is pretty sure is close to _well, lets get right down to business, shall we?_ , which doesn’t exactly put Ryan at ease. Ryan watches him, wary, as he shakes hands with Spencer. Spencer is all business – one of them has to be.

Gerard Way, on the other hand, grins as he steps through the door, looking unwashed and disheveled, like he’s been in the car for a few hours with nothing to do, but still remarkably friendly. They both smell like cigarettes. Gerard runs a hand through his hair and waves at them.

“Hiya,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “So. I know that you’re Ryan –” he gestures at Ryan with one loose hand, “– but, um. Not the rest of you. So, hi. I’m Gerard, and this nutcase next to me is Brian.” His smile says _hi, I’m here to give you a chance_ , and Ryan can feel the muscles in his shoulders want to relax, but they have nothing, yet, so he just nods his head and looks at Spencer.

Spencer, who is standing slightly behind Brian, rolls his eyes and smiles – still nervous, Ryan knows, but covering it up, pushing it away. One day, Ryan will be strong enough that he won’t need to. He will.

“I’m Spencer,” Spencer says. “Next to Ryan is Brendon, and then Brent is on the end.”

Brendon grins, nervousness in the set of his shoulders and his hands on the tabletop, but not in his face. He says, “Howdy,” his voice as light and unconcerned as he can fake. Brent manages a nod, but if anyone is particularly bad in new company, it’s Brent. He keeps his eyes cast mostly on the wood grain of the table.

“Well,” Brian says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “why don’t you play something for us?”

For the first time, Ryan speaks up.

“Yeah, I think we can do that,” he says. He thinks that they can.

+

Gerard knows that he thinks differently than Brian does. Brian, whether he wants to or not, thinks in marketability and polish, thinks in booking and accounting and organizing. Gerard thinks, instead, in impact.

Gerard’s truth is this – they are _something_. Brendon, Brendon could be dangerous, with just his posture behind the piano broadcasting _look at me; look at me, please, now_. The lyrics, Gerard is pretty sure, are Ryan’s – it’s in the way he mouths along; he tags in for the backup vocals, but his lips move even when he’s silent, his head bowed over the body of his guitar. He is tense like a weapon, like a bow strung too tight to bend – he is tense enough to break. Spencer is everything stable and loose and comfortable, even if Gerard would guess that half of it is broadcasted, pasted on to look like this doesn’t matter. He is ease and rhythm; he is also the only one who looks like he means it when he smiles, glancing down at them over his drum set. Brendon’s lips curve up, but it is all sharp edges and broken glass; Brendon’s smiles are a challenge, a _think you can keep up with me?_. Ryan and Brent don’t even get that far. Ryan might lash out before he’ll smile, Gerard thinks, and he really doesn’t know about Brent. Brent doesn’t look up from his bass, his body shifted mostly away from them.

Brian is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, purposefully intimidating. Gerard, though, can see the way he pulls his piercing into his mouth, chews on his lips, and that means that he’s – something. Interested, maybe. Gerard wants to say _yes, Brian, say yes, they’re worth it_ , because Gerard believes this, but now isn’t the time. Instead, he waits until Spencer’s last cymbal crash, the last chord on Ryan’s guitar, the elongated note of Brendon’s voice, and then he smiles. Wraps his hand around Brian’s wrist and says, “Hey, thanks. That’s great. I’m just gonna pull Brian outside for a minute, okay?” And he can feel Brian’s hand tense, but he’s looking at the way that Ryan glances over his shoulder to Spencer, Spencer’s shrug in response. He thinks _huh_ , and watches Brendon watching them.

“Yeah, okay,” Ryan says, and Gerard tugs Brian with him, out of the door.

+

Brendon says, “Well,” but stops after that, like he’s not sure what to say. Spencer comes over to them from behind the drums, drumsticks stuck in his back pocket. He hooks his chin over Brendon’s shoulder, fingers just touching the hem of his shirt. Ryan can see his lips press together like he’s humming, a drone in the back of his throat, and Brendon closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Ryan is pretending that he’s not watching every move that they make, strumming his fingers idly over the strings of his guitar.

“What do you think?” Brent asks, and Ryan assumes that he’s asking Spencer, but when Ryan glances up, Brent just has his eyebrows raised in Ryan’s direction.

“I think –” Ryan says, “I think.” He thinks he doesn’t know. Brendon had sounded even better than usual, but Ryan knows that he messed up a few chords, and if that really matters, than. Than maybe they shouldn’t even be trying.

“They’re going to say yes,” Brendon says, like he’s certain, like he knows, and sometimes Ryan wishes that he could just say what needs to be said like that. Say what people want to hear. Brendon, he’s pretty sure, doesn’t even really believe it himself, but.

“Yeah, dude,” Ryan says, trying for a smile. “Really.”

+

Gerard presses Brian back against the side of the building with the palms of his hands and the tips of his fingers, letting the grin spread across his face like he wants it to.

“Say yes, Brian,” he says. Brian is still like Gerard remembers him always being, not moving into Gerard’s hands, not pushing away. He turns his head to the side, looking over Gerard’s shoulder to the left, and he bites into his lip ring.

“You’re sure they can do it?” is what he asks. Gerard is certain that he knows the answer.

“Yeah,” he says. “Dude, you were there when we started. At least their fucking amps work. It’s _there_ – or, if it’s not, it will be.”

Brian meets Gerard’s eyes, then, squinting as he scrutinizes in that Brian way that he does – like he’s searching for something specific – and Gerard doesn’t dare look away. 

Finally, Brian nods to himself, and he says, “Okay. Yes it is, then.”

Gerard knows, then, that he hadn’t needed to bother convincing – Brian only gives in that easily when his mind is already made up.

“Good,” is all he says.

+

Ryan manages not to faint, or puke, or scream when Gerard and Brian come back in. He just sits so, so still and waits until Brian says, “Honestly, the live performance needs some work – fine tuning mostly, but I think we can deal with that. The songs themselves have potential – maybe some tightening up in the melodies, but. Good, so far.” Ryan looks up from where he’s been staring at the scuffmarks on his shoes. He can’t exactly look Brian in the face, not right now, so he just settles for staring at the curve of his chin, the line of his lower lip arched up, the glint of metal in the fluorescent lighting. “So, if you guys want to take a look at the papers, I think we can work something out.” 

When Ryan finally manages to work his eyes upward, Brian’s smile isn’t sly, and it isn’t smug, it isn’t _I hold the rest of your lives in my hands_. It’s – cautiously optimistic, and Ryan balls his hands into fists and presses them against his thighs, his fingernails digging into his palms. He lets himself smile, just a little, and he says,

“Yes,” he says. “Definitely, I mean –”

“Where’re the papers?” Spencer asks, and Ryan sends him a look of thanks.

Gerard just smiles from behind Brian.

+

Later, when Ryan is sitting with their contract - _their contract_ \- mostly fisted between his hands, signed and everything, Brian says, Our prerogative is to get you guys on tour, as soon as possible.” He’s leaning easily back against the wall of the practice space, certainty in the spread of his feet, the loose lines of his arms.

“But,” Spencer says, sitting close enough that Ryan can feel the heat of him all along his side, “shouldn’t we have an album first? An EP, even.” Ryan’s not even totally sure they have enough songs for an extended set. He looks at the contract in his hands and knows that he’ll do whatever it takes, _whatever it takes_.

“Eventually we’ll stick you in the studio to record, but we need you to perfect your live performance, first. Can’t be a good band if you don’t play well live, you know?”

“What about,” Ryan says, before he even knows he’s going to start talking. “I mean. What about the demos? We could sell those at shows, right?” He almost winces at the questioning tone to his voice, but manages to suppress it. He knows that half of popularity is word of mouth, and how much easier that is with a CD that can be popped in a car disc player, or put on at parties.

“That’s a good idea, actually, if you feel like buying a million blank CDs.” Brian smiles, and he looks _nice_. Ryan wonders why he doesn’t smile that often, but – maybe that’s why.

“I’d draw you a cover, if you wanted,” Gerard says from the side of the room, smiling. “It won’t be anything professional, but it’ll be easy to Xerox and better than nothing.”

“That would be – ” Brendon starts.

“Amazing,” Ryan finishes, and he can feel the corner of his mouth lift in half a smile.

“I’ll email it to you guys later, then,” Gerard says. Ryan leans into Spencer’s shoulder and thinks that, maybe, they’ll actually get what they want.

+

Gerard stops by the car, his hand on the top of the passenger side door. He lets his cigarette butt fall to the ground, and he stamps it out, watching as Brian sucks smoke into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with it.

“Brian?” he asks, and Brian looks up at him with raised eyebrows, pulling the cigarette away so he can breathe out, tendrils of white smoke brushing against his skin and hair. “Think we could maybe get them to open on our next tour? A three or four song set, maybe, just at the beginning?”

Brian ashes his cigarette, and cocks his head to the side, giving Gerard a calculating, almost quizzical look. 

“Why?” he asks.

“Because –” Gerard starts, and sighs. “They remind me of – us. Back at the very beginning.” And Ryan, he doesn’t say, reminds Gerard of Mikey, on the hard days.

“You’ve taken quite the interest in them,” Brian says, dropping his cigarette and pulling the driver’s side door open.

“Yeah,” Gerard says. “I guess.” It’s true. He doesn’t normally care much about other bands – not that he doesn’t like them, he’s just never taken interest in a band like this before.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Brian says, and then slides into the car.

+

Gerard’s sketching on the couch in the lounge when Brian calls. He’s been at it for the past few days, trying to figure out what to put on Panic’s CD cover. They’ll be happy with whatever they get, he knows, as long as they can say _Gerard from MCR drew this for us_. Gerard doesn’t like to think it, really, but he knows it’s true. He hopes he never gets used to other people’s over-appreciation of him.

“Your cell phone’s ringing,” Frank says, popping his head out from the bunk area.

“What?” Gerard says, looking up from his sketch. “Oh.” Frank grins and rolls his eyes – he doesn’t have to say _wow, Gerard, space cadet, much?_ for Gerard to know he’s thinking it.

By the time Gerard actually finds his phone amid the dirty clothes and discarded pencils and rumpled bedclothes, he’s missed the call. He takes his phone back into the lounge, and continues his sketch while he calls Brian back.

“Hello?” Brian asks. “Gerard?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says. “What’s up?” Gerard tucks the phone between his shoulder and his ear, thinking that this is why he doesn’t get a newer, smaller cellphone. The tiny ones just don’t stay right. Mikey wanders over with a cup of coffee, and trades him for the sketchbook.

“I got Panic a few local gigs,” Brian says, ignoring all normal preamble, “and when the new tour starts up next month, they’ll get a short, four or five song set at the very beginning, for the first leg, at least.” Gerard takes a sip of Mikey’s coffee, which is too sweet and creamy for him, but it’s caffeinated, so it doesn’t much matter. Mikey is tracing the lines on his sketchpad, light enough so that he doesn’t smear the pencil.

“Cool,” Gerard says. “You’re pretty much made of magic, you know that, right?” Gerard isn’t entirely sure that he doesn’t mean it. Brian pretty much _is_ made of magic. He and Bob together could stop world hunger, Gerard is almost positive. Mikey nods along, half paying attention to the conversation as he studies the drawing.

“Yeah, I know,” Brian says. He sounds amused, which is a positive. Someday, Gerard will find the right words to apologize, but until then, he’s at least going to make sure that Brian knows he’s appreciated.

“You think I’m joking,” Gerard pushes. “But I’m not, Brian.”

“I’ll see you in a few weeks.” Brian hangs up before Gerard can say goodbye, but that’s normal Brian, getting back to business.

Mikey looks up from the sketchbook, placing it carefully on Gerard’s lap, and taking back his coffee. He doesn’t even seem to mind that there’s only about half left. Mikey’s always been good about sharing with Gerard.

“This them?” he asks, his voice curious.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, looking down at the figures sketched roughly on paper. “You’ll see what I mean when you meet them.”

+

Ryan’s sitting at the computer in his room when he gets the email. Spencer is reading a magazine on his bed, lying on his stomach with his feet in the air. Ryan can hear the slick sound of laminated paper as Spencer turns the page, vaguely, like a sound from far away, and he can’t look away from the computer screen. His fingers clench at the edge of the desk, and he says,

“Hey, Spencer?” His voice is soft to his own ears, but he can’t tell how much of that is the real quietness of his words, and how much of it is the shock. He turns to look at Spencer, who has glanced up from the magazine. Ryan can see the moment Spencer processes the expression on his face, wariness settling across his features.

“What?” he asks.

“Gerard sent us the CD cover,” Ryan says. For half a second, Spencer’s mouth is an ‘O’ of surprise. Then he collects himself, scrambling off the bed, hurried, and leans over Ryan’s shoulder as he looks at the computer screen.

It’s all thick, sharp black lines and accentuated features – Brendon is in the front, slightly to the left of center, wide grin spread across his full lips, leaning forward onto the cane in his right hand. He’s got a sixteenth note trapped, squirming, under the point of his cane. Ryan’s further to the left, sitting on an ornately patterned drum, his legs crossed, and his hugely exaggerated guitar in his lap, dwarfing him. He’s looking down, hair covering more than half of his face, but his one exposed eye is exotically painted, a second sixteenth note drawn, carefully, on his cheek. Spencer is behind Brendon to the right, seated behind a shrunken version of his drum kit, using two quarter notes as drumsticks. His grin is wide and happy, entirely Spencer-like. Brent is farthest to the right, his body half twisted away, hair completely obscuring his expression. His bass is in the shape of another quarter note, fingers pressed to the strings. In the corner, written in simple cursive, it says _Panic! At The Disco – Relax, Relapse_.

“Awesome,” Spencer says, nodding.

“Think we can get your mom to buy us some blank CDs?” Ryan asks. It’s pretty much fucking _perfect_.

+

Gerard’s used to only having about a week off between tours. At least this time, he thinks, he has something to look forward to besides performing – Panic will be joining them in a few days. Gerard’s not sure what to do, exactly, with his irrational affection for them, except to roll with it and see what happens. He curls up on the couch in the lounge with his sketchbook and his ridiculously large mug of coffee, but he can’t think of what to draw. He doodles a few tiny dancing skeletons, and sketches the contour of hands pressing piano keys, but nothing worth making into a larger piece. He sighs, and puts his pencil down. What he wouldn’t do for the room to bring his paints on tour with him. He’s got a few watercolor sets stashed around, but he misses the thick quality of paint – he always feels like he’s getting something done when there are swathes of paint involved.

“Hello, Mr. Space Case,” Frank says, plopping down next to him on the couch. He giggles that high-pitched giggle of his and steals Gerard’s mug. Gerard bats at his hands, and tries to reclaim his hard-won caffeine, but Frank’s always been a wiggly bastard, and manages to get a few good gulps in.

“Hey,” Gerard says, scowling. “Get your own.”

“Gerard,” Frank says, seriously, “your mug is the size of your head. How do you not have to piss like a racehorse all the time?”

“Maybe I just have a really big bladder,” Gerard says. His fingers are itching for a cigarette in that way they always do when he’s not drawing. Eventually, he supposes he should go outside and smoke. Frank pokes him in the belly and sighs.

“I’m not going to have to separate you two, am I?” Mikey asks from the doorway to the bunks, yawning and scratching at his scalp.

“I don’t think we’re really fighting,” Gerard says, smiling and holding out his mug to Mikey. He hears Frank’s offended snort, but Mikey is his _brother_. Mikey gets special caffeine privileges. Mikey shoots him a grateful look and folds himself up on one of the chairs, his knees somehow fitting below his chin.

Gerard has good feelings about this tour.

+

The van is, quite honestly, a piece of shit; Ryan knows this, but he really, really doesn’t care. He throws his bag in the back and climbs into the passenger seat, waiting for Spencer and Brendon to get back from the convenience store attached to the gas station. Brent is fast asleep in the last row of seats, snoring softly, and Ryan is envious. He’s been driving for almost four hours straight, and he stares out of the window, wondering if he will even possibly be able to fall asleep.

Tomorrow they’re starting on the tour. Tomorrow they are opening for My Chem. Ryan’s not sure how this is his life, but he doesn’t want to close his eyes, just in case it all goes away. It’s not that, logically, he thinks that’ll happen, but he’s never been good at applying logic to his life. There’s too much room for error between logic and reality.

Spencer’s got a six-pack of Red Bull and a tube of Pringles swinging from a plastic bag on his wrist when he leaves the store. Brendon’s already eating a Slim Jim, and Ryan can see the bag of M&Ms sticking out of his back pocket as he climbs into the van.

“Spencer’s driving,” he says, still chewing loudly.

“Thus, the Red Bull,” Spencer adds, sliding into the driver’s side seat. He pops out _Take This To You Grave_ , and puts in _Your Favorite Weapon_ instead. They have a silent agreement not to put on _Brought You My Bullets_ for the entire ride. Ryan already feels like enough of a fanboy – he gave Gerard their demos at a _show_ , a show he was honestly really excited to see – and he knows that Spencer feels similarly. He’s not sure how long this will last for, but he’s also not sure it matters.

“Ready to go?” Spencer asks, glancing in the rearview as he starts the car.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, mouthing, _and if you ever said you miss me then don't say you never lied_ along with Jesse Lacey – the speakers are shit, just like the van, but it doesn’t matter. He sees Spencer looking over at him, and he smiles, just a little. Spencer pulls out of the parking lot.

They have about three hours left to go.

+

Their first sound check goes better than expected. Ryan’s not used to having to check mic levels, amps, not used to anything outside of the practice space, so he just sits back and lets the techs do their thing. He doesn’t look up from his guitar as he plays, just watches his fingers pick out the correct chords, taking comfort in the hard press of his fingertips on the strings.

They play through their five song set, and Ryan can’t help it, after the intro of the first song he turns to watch Spencer, Spencer’s hair flying around his head as he drums, exactly _there_ like he should be. There’s not even an audience yet, and Ryan doesn’t know how he’s not going to puke before going onstage. He shifts his weight to mask the slight trembling of his knees, excess energy humming under his skin.

He pulls his hand away from the guitar, letting the last note fade out, and is startled by the clapping. He hears Brendon laugh, and he turns around to find Gerard standing by the side of the stage, grinning. Standing next to him – standing next to him is his brother, Mikey Way, and fucking Bob Bryar, and Ryan grasps the neck of his guitar and pretends that he remembers how to smile.

“Awesome,” Gerard says, and brushes his hair away from his face, long and black and dirty in the bad lighting.

“Really?” Brendon asks, his voice surprised and needy in that way that Ryan doesn’t know how to deal with, and Ryan can see Bryar nod from behind Gerard. Mikey’s hands dig deep into his pockets, but he doesn’t nod or look away. 

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and then seems to remember his company. “Uh, this is Mikey, my brother, and Bob, our drummer.”

“We know,” Spencer says, stepping down from behind his drum set. Gerard laughs. Ryan’s waiting for Mikey to move, make any indication at all that he’s listening – he’s sharp in a way that reminds Ryan of his own elbows and hips and jaw, and Ryan wants to write on him in sharpie, tiny letters along the curve of his bones. He grips his guitar tighter, the strings digging into the palm of his hand.

“Nice beats,” Bob says, somewhat unexpectedly, his hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie. Ryan’s not sure if the comment is directed at all of them, or just Spencer. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was just for Spencer – Spencer is amazing, Ryan knows, and not just subjectively. Brendon has enough talent to fill a house with, but he’s not Spencer. Bob nods, and, glances at Brent, who is shifting his weight awkwardly behind them. 

“Excited about the show?” Gerard asks, and if Ryan knew him better, he’d say that Gerard knew exactly how much they were shitting themselves. Ryan can’t decide if his smile is kind or smug, but he’s reserving judgment, because – well, because Gerard is how they are here at all.

“About to puke, actually,” Brendon says, cheerfully, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Ryan’s still watching Mikey, who is looking down at his own feet, silent – Ryan wants to know what his voice sounds like. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what – there’s nothing he can say, really.

“Just try to keep it offstage,” Gerard says, turning to go. “Come hang out with us after, if you want.”

“Sure,” Ryan manages to say. He’s surprised by it, by the deep tone of his voice. Bob glances between the four of them, as if weighing them, and shrugs.

“We have sound check soon, Gee,” he says, “we should get back to the dressing room.”

When Ryan finally lets go of his guitar, his fingers tingle like he’s cut off the circulation.

+

“Well?” Gerard asks, closing the door to the bus behind them. Mikey slumps on the couch in the back lounge, next to Ray, who looks up from his laptop, and slides one earphone off.

“What’s the verdict?” Ray asks, and Gerard just shrugs and looks at Bob, standing behind him in the doorway.

“The picture makes sense, now,” Mikey says, and his lips curve in half a smile. “I get it.”

“See? See, I told you so,” Gerard says. “They’re gonna be great.” Gerard doesn’t know why he’s so sure, but he’s learning to trust his instincts again. He’s letting himself do that again. 

“They’re gonna be something, all right,” Bob says. 

“Bob knows, you guys, see. I’m not the only one who thinks so.” 

Mikey shakes his head, and Ray smiles, shrugs, and puts his headphones back on. 

Frank pops his head around Bob and says, “Gee, Brian says to call him later.” Bob elbows him in the head, and Frank’s sentence ends in a squawk. “I dare you to try that again, asshole.”

“So be it,” Bob says, and smiles.

“Okay,” Gerard says, but no one is paying attention anymore.

+

“I’m going to be visiting more often, now,” Brian is saying, his voice utterly serious. “If only to keep an eye on the kids. Is that going to be a problem?”

Gerard is sitting outside the bus, leaning against the back wheel with his knees pulled up to his chest. The night is chilly, but Gerard rarely goes anywhere without a hoodie on, so it’s only his ankles that are cold, where his pants ride up a little too far. 

“I, yeah, no, fine,” Gerard says, trying to be convincing. He’s only really good at it when it doesn’t matter. 

“Gerard,” Brian says, his voice matter-of-fact, no-nonsense. “Seriously.”

“Brian,” Gerard says. “It’s not a big deal.” It might even not be, who knows? Gerard’s not willing to take any bets on the subject, but it’s a possibility. He’s pretty sure the awkwardness is all on his part, anyway, but that’s to be expected. Most of his life has been spent that way. 

“Okay,” Brian says, with a resigned _whatever you say_ in his voice. Gerard pulls his lighter and pack out of his pockets, pulling out a new cigarette and lighting it. “If you’re sure.”

“Just so long as you don’t ask us to clean the bus,” Gerard says, exhaling smoke. Brian laughs, and Gerard lets himself relax, just a little.

“Deal,” Brian says. “I’ll see you in a week.”

+

“How many CDs did we sell?” Brendon asks, climbing into the van, a few hours and more miles after the show. They’re about halfway to the next venue, and Ryan’s pretty sure Spencer and Brent are sleeping. They’d alternated once already, two of them staying awake while the other two slept, just to make sure no one fell asleep at the wheel. Ryan had slept for a few hours earlier, and isn’t tired so much as jittery at this point – too many double lattes, extra shots of caramel flavoring.

“Not sure,” he says, taking a sip from his blue slushy – they’re parked at a gas station, filling up, and Ryan takes advantage of sugar where he can get it. “Maybe ten? Fifteen?”

“Really? That many? Dude, that’s over fifty dollars!”

“Should buy us tomorrow’s gas, at least,” Ryan says, propping his feet on the dashboard as Brendon pulls out again.

“You lack imagination, Ryan. We could buy fireworks! Or a new pair of shoes to share between the four of us!”

“Or gas for tomorrow.” Brendon laughs, and Ryan takes another loud sip from his slushy, looking back into the rows of seats. He can see the top of Spencer’s head, his hood pulled up over his hair, leaning against the window. His breath is fogging up the glass, the condensation outlining his nose and mouth, the line of his chin. Ryan can only see Brent’s feet, his white socks, the top of his ankles. His sneakers are on the floor, haphazardly sliding as Brendon takes a turn too sharply.

“How do you think we’re doing?” Brendon asks, his voice serious again. He’s got a bag of chips in the cup holder, smears of grease faintly shining on the steering wheel as they drive under streetlights. Ryan wiggles his toes against the windshield, and thinks about how to answer.

“We’re doing good, Brendon,” he says. “Fifteen CDs on the first night? That’s not so bad.” Ryan’s not encouraging by nature; he hardly ever knows what to say to be reassuring, but he doesn’t think that’s actually what Brendon is asking for. Brendon knows they can do this better than Ryan does, probably.

“Even if this is all it is,” Brendon says, not looking away from the road, “the four of us in a van, driving and performing and driving again. I don’t need anything else.” Ryan presses his fingers against his thighs in the last chord he played that night, up onstage with the lights on them.

He doesn’t think he could’ve said it any better.

+

Mikey’s watching Panic from offstage when Gerard finds him. Gerard’s not sure if the kids have noticed, but Mikey’s face is one of concentration, like he’s trying to break each song down to its separate, component parts and analyze them all individually.

Gerard bumps Mikey with his shoulder, and Mikey leans against him.

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” Gerard asks, leaning in close so Mikey can hear him over _Camisado_ , Spencer’s drums and Brendon’s voice.

“Hard to classify,” Mikey says, rocking back on his heels. “I don’t know what to call them.”

“Exactly,” Gerard says, smiling. Ryan hasn’t looked up from his guitar since he got onstage, except to glance over his shoulder at Spencer.

“Yeah,” Mikey says, his voice something close to pleased.

+

When Ryan hears the knock on the van door, he’s not expecting Gerard to be standing outside, looking off to one side, a glowing cigarette held in his left hand.

“Hi,” Ryan says, jumping out, onto the gravel. 

“Hi,” Gerard says, and smiles. “You said you were going to hang out with us, but you never did.” Ryan bites his lip to try to keep the surprise off of his face. He had assumed Gerard hadn’t actually meant the initial invitation, and hadn’t bothered to find out for sure. He still can’t think of any reason why they should care, not about talking to Ryan.

“Um,” he says. “I wasn’t – sorry.” Gerard smiles, and Ryan gets that impression again, the one that tells him that Gerard knows everything that’s going on in his head. He’s not sure he likes it.

“It’s okay,” Gerard says. “Just a friendly reminder.”

“What – are you doing after the show?” Ryan asks, and almost winces at the banal blandness of the question.

“Playing Halo, probably. Who knows? Maybe things will get exciting.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, because he knows it’s his turn, but he doesn’t have anything to add. He’s out of his depth.

“So – I’ll actually see you this time?” Gerard’s smile is kind and sharp, and Ryan will go, if only to figure him out. Why he cares about them at all.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Yeah, I – okay.”

Gerard takes a drag on his cigarette, raising an eyebrow, half-skeptical, and then turns away.

+

The show that night goes too quickly for Ryan – he doesn’t remember half of what he played, thinking, instead, about My Chem’s bus, and Gerard’s face, and the knowing way he smiled. He hopes that he got his chords right, his choreographed backup vocals, but he can’t focus on that right now.

He spends the waiting time at the merch table, sitting in a plastic folding chair. He’s staring at his knee, watching it bounce nervously, only half-listening as the next band starts up their act. There’s one more before My Chem is even on.

“Hey.” Ryan looks up, and there’s a girl standing in front of the table, her hands on her hips. Her hair is messily colored in red and black, and her lip ring shines in the dim lighting. She’s pretty much anyone from this crowd.

“Hey,” he says, sitting up straighter.

“You’re from that band – Panic.”

“At The Disco, yeah.” He smiles, not even really meaning to, because, wow, she’d _remembered_ him, and that – is pretty awesome. “Why aren’t you –” he gestures vaguely at the door to the main room of the venue.

“Pit got too intense. I’m just waiting for MCR to go on,” she replies, saying each letter like its own word – Emm See Are – and Ryan almost, almost wants to say, _hey, me too_ , but. He’s surprised by how much he’s managed already. “Do you guys have a CD, yet?” Her question is curious, polite, but Ryan doesn’t think he’ll ever stop getting the thrill that runs up his spine when someone asks that.

“Just a demo, so far. We’re going to be recording soon, probably,” he says. “But it’s only five bucks, if you want it.”

“Sure,” she says, smiling, and digs a few bills out of one of the pockets in her pants.

Ryan wonders why anyone would care about how big the shows they play are, not when they can have _this_ at every one.

+

Gerard is covered in a layer of sweat and running makeup when he steps offstage, one arm slung over Frank’s shoulder.

“I love playing shows sober,” Gerard says, slightly incoherently.

“Don’t worry, Gee,” Frank says, half-giggling, “we love you playing shows sober also.”

“Good, ‘cause no matter how much I love you, Frank, I’d much rather keep my pants _on_ while I’m singing.”

Gerard revels in the ability to joke about this – he’s tired of them tiptoeing around it, not when he’s managing to be proud of himself, when he’s not thinking about that next drink, that bottle of anti-depressants in the cupboard in the bathroom. He’d rather make fun than think about how it couldn’t have gotten much worse.

“I have to say, my life’s a better place since your pants started staying up,” Frank notes, jabbing Gerard in the soft of his stomach with his elbow. “Draw me a zombie Batman when we get back to the bus?”

Gerard cocks his head to the side, considering.

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

+

Ryan doesn’t make Brendon knock, not really. He just sort of can’t make himself do it. Finally, Brendon rolls his eyes, and does it for him, leaning his arm on one of Ryan’s shoulders. Ryan’s not quite sure how Brendon makes the position comfortable, as Ryan is taller than he is, but he’s not going to protest the casual contact. Ryan wonders if Brendon knows this. He wouldn’t put it past him.

Frank answers the door, and Ryan remembers that they haven’t been formally introduced yet. Ryan’s just seen him thrashing about onstage, arching up off the floor as he plays with every muscle in his body. Sometimes Ryan wishes he could be like that – mostly he knows he never will be.

“Hi,” Frank says, smile tilting down to one side of his face, lopsided and cheerful. He thrusts his hand out in the space between them. “I’m Frank.”

Ryan has to restrain himself from saying, _I know_ , and making a total ass of himself.

“Ryan,” he says instead and shakes Frank’s hand, briefly, to be polite. Brendon half-bounces forward, arm falling off of Ryan’s shoulder, and pumps Frank’s hand up and down a few times.

“I’m Brendon. Do you really have Halo in your bus? We don’t even have a TV, dude, I’m jealous.”

“We do,” Frank says, giggling, high-pitched, in a way Ryan would never have expected. He pulls the brim of his hat down over his forehead, smile wide and open. “And it’s _mine_ , but I think I can let you play it. I’m totally going to kick your ass, though.”

“Whatever,” Brendon says, waving a hand, unconcerned. “I am a Halo master, I’ll have you know.” Ryan is always, at times like this, abruptly glad to have Brendon around – how Brendon manages to deal with the rest of them, Ryan’s not sure. None of them are nearly high-energy enough for him.

+

Sometime around midnight, Gerard stumbles out from the back lounge to find Bob, Brendon, and Frank all playing Halo on the television in the front lounge, Ryan sitting quietly next to them, watching. Bob seems to be winning by a large margin.

“Geez,” Gerard says, “what did I tell you guys about letting Bob have a sniper rifle?”

“We’ve never listened to you, Gee, why would we start now?” Frank says, mashing the buttons on his controller way too hard. He doesn’t look away from the screen.

“I voted for rocket launchers, but they vetoed me,” Brendon says. “Fuck, I hate you guys.”

Bob sort of grunts, and Gerard isn’t surprised that Brendon gets along with them, actually. Ryan glances over his shoulder, and actually smiles, so Gerard figures that he can’t be having that bad a time.

“Who wants to come with me for a cigarette?” he asks the room at large. Mikey’s reading in the bunks and Ray’s still fiddling on his computer in the back, so that leaves these douches.

“Dude, why in the middle of a game?” Frank asks, “you know Bob doesn’t let us pause ‘em in the middle.”

“It’s boring,” Bob says, and Gerard can hear the raised eyebrow and feigned innocence in his voice.

“I’ll go,” Ryan says, quietly.

“And he speaks,” Brendon says, obviously joking. 

Ryan seems to hold in a flinch, and Gerard is not surprised. He says, “C’mon, lets go.”

+

“Why do you smell like licorice?” Ryan says, eventually. Gerard’s made it through a cigarette and a half, and is surprised that he smells like anything other than cigarette smoke. They’re sitting on the steps outside the bus, and Ryan’s been looking out into the night, the lights from the other buses. Gerard hadn’t felt like making him talk, and hadn’t minded the silent company, either, but this was – maybe better.

“Uh,” he says. “Oh, I was using a licorice scented marker – the drawing was for Frankie, and he thinks scented markers are hilarious, so.”

He looks down at his hands, the black streaks on his fingers where he’d accidentally drawn on himself.

“They kind of are,” Ryan says, and his smile, when he turns to Gerard, is just a little more genuine. “What were you drawing?”

“Zombie Batman,” Gerard says, and exhales smoke. “Well, it started out just being Batman, but it sorted of ended up being, like. Zombie batclan. Nightwing, and Robin, and Oracle, and stuff.” He shakes his head, ashing his cigarette. “You probably have no idea what I’m talking about, right?”

“Uh,” Ryan says, and then shrugs. “I know who Batman and Robin are, no thanks to the horrible George Clooney movie version.” He pauses, and Gerard doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to finish. “Could I – would you mind showing it to me?” He says it like he’s expecting rejection, and Gerard’s pretty sure he is. Gerard doesn’t know him that well, but Ryan seems like the kind of kid to expect rejection rather than hope for acceptance. He wants to say that everything will be okay, but he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t solve anything.

“Yeah, sure,” Gerard says instead, “anytime.”

+

Brian arrives on a Tuesday. Gerard has no idea where they are, but he’s almost positive that it’s Tuesday. That’s better than some days, even.

“Finally,” Frank says, when Brian climbs into the bus, “someone person-sized on this tour.”

“Ha,” Brian says, sitting at the table. “Hi, Frank.”

“Hi, Brian. I hope you brought your Febreeze. The Way brothers aren’t showering again.”

“Hey!” Gerard says, “I showered, like, two days ago.”

“And that’s why I can smell you from here,” Frank says. Mikey, sitting next to Frank on the couch, snorts and pushes him.

“Hey,” he says, “don’t talk about my brother that way.”

“Wow,” Brian says, eyebrows raised. “I can’t believe that I kind of actually missed you guys.”

+

Ryan’s eating a sandwich in the passenger seat of the van when Brian knocks on the window. Brent’s sitting in the driver’s seat with his knees propped on the steering wheel – they’re talking about things they miss and don’t miss from home (the diner around the corner from Brent’s house is the former, as is Spencer’s mom’s macaroni and cheese, while ninety percent of the kids in their high school are the latter). Ryan starts, managing not to choke on the bite he’s just taken, and Brian grins. It’s not precisely a _nice_ grin, but an amused one – Ryan doesn’t actually know that many genuinely nice people, and wouldn’t count himself as one, either, so he just swallows cautiously and rolls down his window. 

“Careful there,” Brian says, still smirking.

“Hi,” Ryan says, folding the sandwich back up in its takeout wrapper – he can finish it once the conversation is over, maybe.

“You here to check up on us?” Brent asks, his voice quiet. He’s long since picked up Ryan and Spencer’s less-than-enthusiastic vocal expressions. Ryan can tell he’s curious, maybe a little amused, but he’d bet that to Brian, the words simply sound flat.

“Yep,” Brian says, leaning his arms on the open window. “Pretty much. How’s it going?”

Ryan exchanges a glance with Brent, who shrugs. 

“Good, so far,” he says. Brent is one of the only people Ryan knows who is even less talkative than he himself is. Ryan isn’t used to being the one forced to talk. He figures it’s a healthy challenge, though. “People are buying the demos, which –” He cuts himself off, not wanting to say, _which I wasn’t really expecting them too_. He knows – pessimism. He knows this. He can keep it to himself.

Brian just grins. “Yep. Knew they would. Mikey says you guys are getting better already – Brendon’s voice. Playing to the crowd.” Ryan just blinks, because – really? He hadn’t thought Mikey paid them any attention whatsoever.

“We are,” Brent says, like he knows for certain. And maybe he does – Brent’s quiet, sure, but he’s never been as pessimistic as Ryan is. 

“Practice makes perfect,” Ryan says.

“Exactly,” Brian says, and pulls away from the window. “I’ll see you at sound check.”

+

Gerard doesn’t normally go to watch Panic warm up, but Brian’s here this time, and he wants to know what Brian thinks. Gerard knows what _he_ thinks – he thinks what he’s always thought, what he feels in his gut, and it tells him _they’re going to be great_. Brian, though, Brian is the one carrying the brunt of the weight, the one who has to think about recording and publicity.

Afterward, they sit on the edge of the stage, and Gerard offers Brian a cigarette, like it’s maybe some kind of tradition at this point. Brian accepts. He lets Gerard light it for him, flicking the lighter and holding it steady. He sucks smoke into his mouth, and Gerard waits, almost patiently, for him to say something.

“Mikey was right, I think,” Brian says, contemplatively. “They’re definitely better than at the practice space, anyway, though how much of that was nerves, I’ll never know.”

“Brendon’s better when there’s an audience,” Gerard says. Something about singing, he thinks. There’s something give-and-take about singing for an audience. 

“I’m betting Brent’s not,” Brian says, squinting out into the distance, thinking.

“Yeah, probably,” Gerard says, and tries not to think _that doesn’t matter as much_. Brent has to play well, yes, but the audience’s focus should be on Brendon – they aren’t Brendon’s words, maybe, but they’re his emotions and his voice. His weight to carry.

“I think you were right,” Brian says, and doesn’t elaborate. Gerard doesn’t really need him to.

+

Even though the bus is loud with the buzz of conversation, sitting on the couch in the lounge, Ryan isn’t talking to anyone. He doesn’t mind in the slightest, preferring, most of the time, to sit back and watch rather than cause. It’s interesting, seeing Brian interact with My Chem – they all pile together with no regard for personal space in a way that reminds Ryan of Spencer and Brendon. Brian is, in some counter-intuitive, organic way, _band_ \- Ryan wouldn’t have said so before now, but he can tell. It’s in the way Frank climbs over him like it’s nothing, and Ray nudges him with a raised eyebrow. Gerard is sitting in the corner with his sketchbook, looking up at them occasionally, for reference, maybe.

Bob, though, is sitting in the corner with Brent, their heads bent close together over some magazine Bob’s got spread out on the table. Ryan’s not sure whether to be surprised or not when he hears Brent laugh, like he does when the four of them are alone in the van together and Brendon’s done something ridiculous. He wonders what Spencer would think.

He glances up as the couch cushions shift with added weight, and finds Mikey settling back against the other armrest. He pulls his long legs up onto the couch with him, folded up like some kind of angular spider. It doesn’t look comfortable, but apparently it is, because Mikey looks over at him. His expression isn’t one Ryan knows how to decode, yet. Not at all – he’s not like his brother, open in every direction and always earnest.

“You’re quiet,” he says, more like an observation than a question.

“I don’t have much to say,” Ryan says, which is at least half lie. Mikey snorts, like he knows it, and Ryan wonders what it is about him that makes him so very transparent to the Way brothers. It’s certainly not fair.

“Maybe not out loud,” Mikey replies, and, yeah. True. 

Ryan rubs at the inside of his arm, and says, “What makes you say that?” He’s not asking because he wants to throw Mikey off, he just – wants to know.

“I’ve seen you onstage,” Mikey says, and shrugs, like it’s as simple as that.

Maybe it is.

+

In the back of the van that night, Ryan writes, feverish, until his hand starts to cramp. He massages it, harsh and impatient, and writes, writes as Brendon’s asleep next to him, Brent and Spencer awake in the front. He falls asleep with the pen, uncapped, in his hand.

In the morning, Spencer shakes him lightly, holds out a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee – artificial sweetener, packets of half and half – and says,

“Long night?” He means, _up to anything I should know about?_ , but he’s Spencer, and he doesn’t have to say it.

Ryan takes a sip of his coffee, notebook still open next to him, and he says, “I think I might have a new song.”

+

Gerard doesn’t mean to interrupt, but they’re playing outside, in the parking lot, and Gerard’s always been too curious for his own good.

He finds them seated, cross-legged, on the black asphalt. Ryan and Spencer are sitting side by side, Ryan with a guitar in his lap, Spencer with a tambourine, a set of bongos, and his drumsticks. Brendon’s reaching around Brent, playing a chord on his acoustic, his own guitar leaning against his thigh.

“Here,” he says. “This one, I think.”

“Really?” Ryan asks, and Brent looks over at him with raised eyebrows.

“Well, doesn’t the bridge have to be slightly slower? Sadder, yeah?”

“I – guess. I was just thinking –” Ryan says, and glances down at his guitar, playing a few short chords. Brendon’s nodding along by the time he stops.

“Huh,” he says. “I like that, too.” Ryan smiles, and it’s surprising in its intensity.

“Do both,” Gerard says, and then claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry,” he says, when they all jolt and look over. “There was music – I, uh. Got curious.”

Spencer lets out a breath. “Jesus,” he says. “A little warning next time, maybe?” 

Brendon laughs, and Gerard smiles.

“Uh,” he says. “Sorry. Just – they sound almost like they could be harmonies, if you tweak them a little, so.”

“Two guitar parts,” Brendon says, nodding again. “Yeah, and then Brent could –”

“Actually make up my own bass part?” Brent says, interrupting, but he’s smiling.

“Yes.” Ryan nudges Spencer with his knee, and Spencer taps out a beat on his tambourine.

“This is not going to be an acoustic song, I hope you know,” Spencer says, conversationally. “I refuse to play the tambourine onstage – it’s so boring.”

“Well,” Brendon says, “we wouldn’t want that.” He starts playing.

+

They have to stop at a Walmart halfway through Tennessee, when they realize that they only have about ten burned copies of their demos left. Luckily, CDs are pretty cheap, and Ray lets them use his laptop.

“Whatever,” he says genially, when Ryan tentatively asks him. None of them know Ray well, at least not yet, and Ryan sort of feels like he owes it to the rest of them – he needs to stop relying on them so much. “It’s not like you’re stealing hard drive space or downloading porn. It’s no big.”

Ryan thinks about all the time Brent’s been spending with Bob, how utterly, unfailingly nice Ray is, how he’d like to have another conversation with Mikey. How Brian goes with them on McDonald’s runs.

He kind of wants this tour to last forever.

+

Ryan runs into Mikey after a show somewhere in the South. Ryan can understand, now, how bands can have no idea where they are. The roads look slightly different, but not enough to distinguish one part of the country from another. Places like New York and Las Vegas are recognizable, but Ryan has no idea how to tell Richmond from Raleigh.

Mikey’s sitting on a patch of grass away from the buses – they’re camped overnight, as the next venue is close enough that they don’t have to start the drive until the next morning. He doesn’t seem to be doing anything, just lying on his back on the ground, staring up at the night sky. Ryan just watches him for a few moments, rocking back on his heels with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He’s not sure if Mikey knows he’s here, but he wouldn’t put it past him.

“Do you really think we’re getting better?” He’s surprised that he manages it at all, but he doesn’t want to take it back. It might be a little rude, but – he doesn’t want to take it back. Mikey looks up, and it’s dark enough outside that Ryan can’t see his expression clearly. He’s not sure he’d be able to interpret it, even if he could.

“Does it matter?” Mikey asks, and sits up, leaning on his elbows. Ryan shrugs his shoulders – it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, probably. It wouldn’t matter to Brian, but. It matters to Ryan. He can see the angles of Mikey’s cheekbones in sharp relief, the light from the bus behind him cutting jagged over one side of his face. Ryan thinks he could slice himself open on the razored lines of Mikey’s body and not even mind very much. “Are you going to sit?” Mikey’s voice is laced with something – amusement, maybe – but Ryan doesn’t rely on himself to be able to dissect these sorts of things. Not unless it’s Spencer, or Brent, or his father.

He sits, cross-legged, on the grass, and stuffs his hands under his thighs, keeping them forcibly stilled. This close, can hear Mikey breathing, and it takes him another three or four minutes, but he finally says, “It does a little.”

“What?” Mikey asks, glancing back over at him. Ryan bites his lip, and he shouldn’t be here right now, it’s too – exposed.

“It does matter. A little.” He chews on the inside of his lip and doesn’t say anything else.

“Oh,” Mikey says, and narrows his eyes. Ryan tries not to fidget and mostly succeeds. “I really do think so,” he adds, eventually, and lies back against the grass.

Ryan takes a deep breath and listens to the beat of his heart in his chest.

“I’m glad,” he says.

+

Gerard is always surprised by how quickly tours seem to run together – like colors of paint spread unevenly across a canvas. It’s like touring is an inherent time warp – everything is the same, stagnant pace, day in and day out, and then he’ll turn around and it’ll be almost over.

Curling up in his bunk, with a cup of coffee in his hand and his sketchbook on his lap, Gerard flips though his pictures. He tries to fill a sketchbook every tour – sometimes he needs more, sometimes he never makes it through the first, but it’s a good goal to have. He looks at the snatches of faces (Frank at sound check, Ray gesturing with one of Mikey’s comics in his hands, Bob talking to Brent side stage, both of them with their arms crossed, leaning back), sketches of vampires and pants and flesh eating plants, superhero costumes and the smiles Ryan and Spencer share onstage. He takes a sip of his coffee and thinks – they’re halfway done.

+

Brian is sitting on the curb out behind the venue when Gerard finds him, lit cigarette dangling between two fingers. He doesn’t smoke it, though, just lets it burn, and Gerard sits down next to him.

He probably shouldn’t, because he still hasn’t been forgiven yet, hasn’t asked, but he nudges Brian with his shoulder, and is pleased when he laughs.

“Ready to head home?” Gerard says with his shoulder pressed to Brian’s. He wonders if Brian would mind it if Gerard stole his cigarette – he doesn’t seem to be smoking it himself.

As if reading his mind, Brian just hands it over, half of it already burned to ash. Gerard taps it against the curb, and sticks it in his mouth, sucking in smoke.

“Not really,” Brian says. “Not that I have any excuse to stay, what with all the work I’m _not_ doing piling up. But you know what it’s like – wouldn’t you rather be on tour than not?”

“Hm,” Gerard agrees, cigarette still in his mouth. It’s true. He’s not sure there’s anywhere he’d rather be than on the road with his band. “Just – why can’t you do your work on the road?”

“You want me to stay, Gee?” Brian asks, and Gerard’s not sure if it’s a serious question or not – he can’t always tell with Brian, whose voice is always slightly sarcastic, even when he’s telling them off. He tells the truth, because he isn’t sure what else he’d say.

“I – yeah, Brian. Why wouldn’t I?” He glances at the cigarette, which is burned almost to the filter, and sees Brian shrug out of the corner of his eye.

“I’ll be back,” he says, and Gerard thinks he means, _I’ll be here if you need me_.

Gerard knew that, already.

+

Ryan climbs into the van – it’s Brendon’s turn to drive, and Spencer’s sitting passenger. He’s not sure where Brent is.

“Spence?” he asks, and Spencer turns around in his seat. “Where’s Brent?”

Spencer rolls his eyes, an expression of vague exasperation toward Brent, probably. Ryan doesn’t think it has anything to do with him.

“He’s riding with My Chem again,” Spencer says. Ryan sighs, pulling out his notebook, balancing it on his knees. He’s glad that Brent’s made friends – he is, he really is – but he doesn’t like finding out last. Brent’s been riding on and off with My Chem or the techs for two weeks now. It’s usually My Chem, and that’s better than nothing, but. But. It hasn’t affected him onstage, he hasn’t been late to sound check, but it makes Ryan nervous.

“Am I being paranoid, Spence?” Ryan asks, and Spencer studies his face. Ryan has to assume that Spencer knows what he’s talking about – Ryan’s not sure he could actually get the words out of his mouth, even if he had to.

“I – don’t know,” Spencer says. Ryan can see the hesitation on his face, and he understands.

“Are we worrying about Brent?” Brendon asks. “Because if we are, I’m all for it.” Spencer shrugs.

“Maybe,” he says.

The guys from My Chem are great – Ryan can’t thank them enough for everything, wouldn’t know how to start, if he had to try – but. Brent is theirs, or he’s supposed to be, and Ryan can’t think of any other way to put it.

“It’s probably nothing,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it.

+

Their set is over, and Ryan’s sitting backstage, watching the stage. He’s sitting on a box off to the side, probably filled with unused cables or something. Ryan doesn’t actually know that much about what goes on backstage – he’s never known exactly what it is that techs do most of the time. My Chem goes on in about forty-five minutes, and Ryan doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of watching them perform. He still can’t exactly understand how this is his job – to play onstage with his band and then get to see the rest of the show.

“Hey, Matt,” he hears to his right during the gap between songs, and looks up to see Brent hailing Matt Cortez, one of My Chem’s guitar techs. Ryan doesn’t know Cortez that well – he doesn’t hang out with the techs pretty much at all, not the way Brent does – but from the way Gerard and Mikey talk about him, he must be awesome. He’s certainly stuck with them long enough. Ryan wasn’t aware that Brent knew him that well, but considering how much time Brent doesn’t spend with them anymore, Ryan’s not exactly surprised he doesn’t know. His stomach roils at the thought, and he watches Matt raise his hand in greeting, saying something too quiet to be heard over the booming of the bass and guitar and drums.

Ryan wonders if they’re losing Brent. He hates himself for thinking it, but that doesn’t mean he can help it.

+

Gerard is sitting in the back lounge with Ray and Bob, listening to the new riffs Ray has put together on his computer.

“I was thinking that the guitar could start off soft – like, just voice and guitar, and then the bass and drums could come in after the first verse,” Ray says, and Gerard nods, leaning over Ray’s shoulder to look at the screen of his computer.

“Huh,” he says. “No wonder you’ve barely talked to anyone in a week. This is awesome shit.” Ray smiles, but doesn’t deny the comment. It’s pretty true.

“Just as long as I get to actually design the drum parts this time,” Bob says, his eyebrows raised.

“Dude, after last time? I learned my lesson, believe me.” Ray rolls his eyes in his easy-going way, clearly saying _my band is filled with neurotic assholes_ , however silent he’s trying to be. 

“You aren’t hanging out with Brent, Bob?” Gerard asks, because, well. Bob mostly _has_ been for the past few weeks. Bob shrugs.

“Maybe later. He has lots of questions. It’s strangely fun explaining shit to him.” Bob sounds vaguely amused, and Gerard shrugs. Sound design goes completely over his head, but whatever. If Brent’s interested, there’s nothing wrong with that.

“I suppose I should be thinking of lyrics for this stuff, huh, Ray?”

“That would be for the best, I think,” Ray says, and turns back to his computer.

Gerard knows a dismissal when he sees one. He laughs and lets Bob pull him out of the room.

+

It takes another eight days for Brent to call a band meeting – Ryan’s surprised, mostly because he figured that they’d have to force it on him.

Ryan’s getting used to being onstage – he’s getting used to constantly being in Brendon’s space, getting used to the sea of faces, a few of whom are actually, actually starting to sing back. Ryan’s getting used to it – Brent isn’t. They all know it.

They’re backstage, still sweat soaked and out of breath, and Brent says, “Hey, guys, I need – can we meet up, quickly?” He’s leaned his bass against the wall, and he’s cracking his knuckles the way he does when he needs to fidget, and Ryan can feel the dread like an iron ball in the pit of his stomach. Spencer closes the door and leans against it, his arms crossed. Brendon sits, backward, in one of the chairs. Ryan just stays still.

“Yeah?” Spencer says in the neutral tone he uses when he’s steeling himself to have to _deal_ with something, and Ryan hates that he thinks that’s his job. He’s not their manager, he doesn’t have to be any more mature than the rest of them are.

“I can’t – I’m sorry I – shit,” Brent says, and takes a deep breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It’s too long, and it tangles around his fingers until he has to yank them back out. “Okay. So, I’ve been thinking, and – you guys know I love you, right? But I – I can’t be onstage. I’m not Brendon, I can’t deal with it.” He shakes his head, and Ryan clenches his hands into fists. He can hear the soft breath Brendon sucks in. “If it was just homesickness it would be so much easier – I could just say that, just go home, but it’s _not_.” He shrugs. “I love this music, and writing it, listening to it. I just can’t – perform it.”

“Are you –” Brendon starts, and Ryan looks over at him. His eyes are wide, and Ryan knows, because this is _unexpected_ , and Brent has never. Brent has never let them down. “Are you quitting the band?”

“I don’t know,” Brent says, shrugging his shoulders. It’s a gesture of helplessness, not indifference. Ryan thinks they’re all a little out of their depth. “Is that what this means? I mean – I guess –”

“How can you be in the band and not perform onstage?” Ryan asks – his voice is too harsh, he knows. He can tell by the way Brent flinches, but he can’t help it. 

“I don’t know,” he says, again. Ryan pushes his clenched fists against his stomach, and stays silent. “I was – I think I want to tech. Bob might teach me some sound stuff. I’ll stay until the end of the tour, I just –”

“It’s okay,” Spencer says. “I mean – it’s not your fault. We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry,” he says. Ryan’s looking at his shoes, but he nods, anyway. “Ryan –“ When he meets Brent’s eyes, Brent looks apologetic. “I didn’t mean to fuck things up – I mean.”

“It’s not – it’s okay,” Ryan says, unsure how he even manages to get the words out.

Ryan’s not sure if it is, if it ever _will_ be, but – they’ll figure it out. Spencer said so. Spencer _said_.

+

Gerard is surprised, more than a little, when Spencer comes to see him, just after they get offstage. It’s not that he doesn’t get along with Spencer, it’s just that they aren’t friends – Gerard would count Ryan as a friend, Brendon too, but Spencer – Spencer has left distance between them, and Gerard is sure that it’s purposeful.

So when he answers the knock on the door and Spencer is standing outside with his hands clenched into fists, bottom lip bitten red, Gerard knows immediately that something is wrong. Why Spencer is _here_ , though, Gerard has no idea.

“Can I come in?” Spencer asks, and he sounds drained, weary, so Gerard steps back, lets him climb the stairs and collapse on the couch.

“What’s up?” Gerard asks, settling on the couch next to him. 

“Brent’s leaving,” Spencer says. Just like that – no preamble, no explanation, no nothing. Gerard is actually not that surprised – not about Brent, not about Spencer. Brent was never _on_ onstage, not that way Brendon always is, not even the way Ryan is. 

As for Spencer, he seems like the kid who rips the Band-Aid off, just to get it over with.

“Shit,” Gerard says. “I’m sorry.” He feels awkward, because – he doesn’t have any idea why Spencer is even here to begin with. “Are you – is everything okay?”

Spencer had been studying the fraying edge on the cuff of his hoodie, but at Gerard’s words he looks up. He tries on a smile, but it just reminds Gerard of Ryan – he’s trying too hard to make it look real.

“I wouldn’t put things that way, no.” He pauses, and it’s clear that Gerard has nothing to say to that. He’s really not sure what there _is_ to say, exactly. Spencer bites into his lip briefly, and then says, “Sorry. This isn’t really your problem at all. I don’t even know why –” He cuts himself off and sighs. “That’s a lie. You had to kick out your old drummer, right?” he asks. Gerard finds himself impressed by the toughness this kid puts forth – he shouldn’t be surprised. He did see them, that first time at the practice space.

“Yeah. Matt,” Gerard says. It’s kind of a touchy subject, and he thinks that Spencer knows this. He’s back to chewing on his lip.

“How did you deal with that?” he asks – it’s the kind of question an interviewer would ask, and he’d give some bullshit answer and they’d move on. This kid, though, deserves some honesty.

“I didn’t – I mean. It wasn’t a good time, for me. Y’know? I’d just done the whole ‘dealing-with-being-an-alcoholic’ thing – or, at least, started to. I wasn’t any help when the Matt shit went down. Sorry,” he says, shrugging. Spencer just nods, his shoulders still tense, too close to his ears to be comfortable. “But,” he adds, “that was us kicking Matt out, ‘cause he was fucking useless. Brent’s just – leaving, right?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says.

“Then this is what’s better for him.” Spencer looks like he wants to say, _yeah, but what about what’s best for the fucking band?_ , his nose scrunched and his eyebrows furrowed, and Gerard doesn’t know. He doesn’t. He’s not used to being the mature one, the knowledgeable one. He relies on Brian for that, more than not. Brian and Ray. “You’ll make it,” Gerard says, not only because he believes it, and he does, but – because the kid needs to fucking _hear_ it. “You’ll make it, because you’re too fucking good not to.”

“You’re fucking right, we’ll make it,” Spencer says, his voice vehement. “If I have anything to say about it.”

Gerard can see why Ryan relies on Spencer so fucking much.

+

Gerard calls Brian on the phone, just after Spencer leaves – he’s not sure it’s his place, really, but. Brian _fixes_ things. It’s what Brian does.

He gets the voicemail, Brian’s voice slow and sarcastic, saying, _hey, this is Brian’s cell – as you can see, I’m too fucking busy to answer right now. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back_. Gerard sighs.

“Brian,” he says, “this is Gerard. I figured you’d want to be kept updated, but I can’t – uh. Just, you might need to come back down here, okay? Just. A heads up.”

Gerard hangs up and looks at his cell, running a hand through his dirty hair. Someday, someday, he’s going to learn not to be so fucking cryptic over the telephone. At least Brian is used to it.

+

Ryan knows he should be talking about this – explaining to Brent that he’s not really angry so much as fucking terrified, figuring out the changes they’re going to have to make with Brendon, but. He figures he can wait until Spencer gets back from wherever the fuck he went. Right now, Ryan is giving himself the space to freak the fuck out. 

“Fuck,” he says, out loud. He’s standing in the parking lot behind some truck stop somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line, with his arms wrapped around his torso. Tomorrow they get to sleep in hotel beds, maybe, but tonight it’s the floor of the van, and Ryan’s not sure he can take that right now. Not right now.

He wants to scream, a little, but there’s no way to do that here without attracting attention, and. Ryan never wants that kind of attention. He’s just not sure what the fuck they’re going to do.

“You okay?” Mikey’s voice behind him, and Ryan almost wants to laugh, because the one time he just wants to be left alone is the time Mikey fucking Way decides to initiate contact – not the truth, precisely, in either respect, but Ryan’s feeling melodramatic enough not to care.

“Okay is a relative term,” he says, and his voice is even flatter than usual. Mikey’s behind him, silent and still – Ryan can’t even hear him breathing. It’s almost like he’s alone, but Mikey speaks again.

“I’m taking that to mean ‘no’,” he says. He doesn’t sound anything but serious. Ryan’s glad, because if there’d been even a tinge of amusement in Mikey’s voice, Ryan’s not sure he wouldn’t have decked him then and thought about the consequences later. Ryan’s not a violent guy, but he can feel the possibility of his dreams crumbling around him, and even sinking his fingernails in and holding on as tight as he can might not be able to keep them together. He needs this, _needs_ it, but there’s nothing he can do but wait. He’s never been good at waiting.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, his voice, once again, harsher than he means it to be. “No.”

“You want me to leave you alone?” Mikey says, and there’s no reproach in his voice, no anger, but Ryan doesn’t know if he’d even be able to tell if there was. And he doesn’t – that’s not what he wants.

“No, don’t,” he says. He can hear the desperation in his voice, and even though he knows most people can’t tell anger from happiness when he speaks, he feels utterly transparent. “Please,” he says, and he hates that he says it.

“Okay,” Mikey says. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about it.” It’s not a question, or, at least, it’s not obviously one. Ryan answers anyway.

“Not really. I’d actually like to not think at all, if it is at all possible.” He manages to laugh, but the sound is like glass breaking – fragile and sharp.

“Sit down,” Mikey says, and Ryan turns to face him. “I can explain Doom Patrol to you, if you want.” It takes Ryan a few long moments to understand that Mikey’s trying to distract him, however odd the attempt might be.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’d like that.”

+

Spencer comes back to the van around two AM. Ryan knows because he checks his cell when the door opens. He’s been lying awake since midnight, waiting.

“Ryan?” Spencer asks, his voice soft, so as not to wake Brendon or Brent – or Ryan, had he actually been sleeping.

“I’m awake,” Ryan says, voice almost a whisper. He sits up, pushing the blanket off of his thighs. Spencer is backlit in the open doorway, the lights from the street leaving his face in shadow. Ryan, though, doesn’t really need to see Spencer’s face to know what he’s thinking. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he says, and it sounds like he’s not even lying that much. Ryan is relieved. “We’ll figure it out, Ryan, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, even though he knows no such thing. He’s not fooling Spencer, he knows, and he’s _trying_ , but he’s still Ryan. He’s still himself.

“Liar,” Spencer says, exasperated affection in his voice, and Ryan reaches over and grabs Spencer’s wrist, pulling him down. Spencer’s knees hit him in the thigh before he rights himself, squeezing in next to Ryan on the seat, half on top of him. Spencer’s breath is warm against his left ear, and Ryan looks at the ceiling.

“I believe it when you tell me things, Spence,” Ryan says, and he means it. Mostly, at least. He believes Spencer more than he’s ever believed anyone else, anyway. Spencer huffs a laugh, and the movement stirs Ryan’s hair, blowing it into his eyes.

“I’m telling you that we’ll figure it out.” His voice is firm, certain, and, for now, that’s enough. 

+

Bob’s in the kitchenette already when Gerard stumbles in, half-asleep and severely caffeine-deprived. The other three are still sleeping – he can see Ray’s hair, through the gap in the curtain, and Frank tends to snore. Mikey, well, Mikey is always the last up, simply by virtue of when he goes to sleep.

“Morning,” Bob says, and hands Gerard a cup of coffee. Gerard gratefully drinks half of it in one long gulp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Hi,” he says, eventually. He sits at the table, and watches Bob pour himself a bowl of dry cereal – he doesn’t like it soggy, so he doesn’t even bother to use milk at all. “Did you actually convince Brent to leave?” he asks. He doesn’t mean it as a judgment, because, well, Bob actually tends to avoid conflict wherever possible. Why would he start purposefully causing issues now?

“Convince is a strong word. He’s not a performer, Gerard. You know that.” Bob puts his bowl on the table and slides in across from Gerard, who shrugs.

“Yeah, but they could’ve kept him longer, anyway. He was fine, for now.” 

Bob snorts. “I guess, if you want it to end in a huge argument – you know how it goes. People hold on too long, it gets harder to say goodbye amicably.” Bob shrugs like he knows, and he probably does. He’s seen more than a few band members leave for one reason or another; Matt’s not even the best example. “Figured at least this way, the kid might actually still want to be in the business.”

Gerard nods. Bob doesn’t get talkative much – it’s not often that he actually has a strong enough opinion to bother. When he does, though, Gerard tends to listen to him, if for no other reason than that he’s thought his shit through.

“You really going to teach him?” Gerard asks. Bob shrugs again, and nods while he finishes chewing.

“If he really wants to learn. I figure he’ll have the time, at least until the tour ends.”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and swallows the rest of his coffee. He wonders if Ryan or Spencer are going to blame Bob, but he can’t see that happening. They’re both too smart to think blame can rest on one set of shoulders. “You’re a good dude, Bob.”

“Saved your ass more than a few times,” Bob answers. It’s totally the truth.

+

Brian calls Gerard back halfway through a marathon of Romero’s _Dead_ series, and the ringing startles him, making him jump. Ray laughs, but Frank says,

“Jesus, Gee, answer your fucking phone, we’re missing the shopping montage.”

Gerard hops relatively gracefully over the couch and goes into the bunk area, sitting on the floor.

“Hello?” he says.

“Took you long enough,” Brian says, and he sounds vaguely amused. Gerard wonders if any of the Panic boys have called him yet. He’s betting on not, and he should’ve probably just left the whole thing up to them. He’s really not always good at minding his own business.

“Uh, yeah, had to leave the lounge. Romero-a-thon going on, and Frank was going to kill me if I made him miss any more.” 

Brian laughs, and the sound makes Gerard smile, looking down at his bare feet on the cluttered floor. 

“Wouldn’t want to miss any gruesome horror, I guess,” Brian says. “Sorry if I’m interrupting.”

“No! No, it’s okay,” Gerard says, and then feels like an idiot. “I’ve seen them all about fifty times anyway. Zombies are the way to go.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing.” He pauses for a second, and Gerard can feel where the conversation is going to be serious. He tries not to let his shoulders tense, and sits up straighter. “Anyway, what was that phone call about last night?”

“Uh,” Gerard says. “I don’t – look. Call Ryan or Spencer, okay? It’s their thing.” 

“Gerard,” Brian says, his voice low like it is when he knows he’s not going to like whatever is going on. Gerard used to hear that tone all the time, the warning in the tenor of his speech. He hasn’t in awhile, not since rehab and Bob, but it still makes him tense up like he’s in trouble.

“I can’t! I just didn’t want you to walk in blind,” Gerard says, and he listens to Brian sigh. 

“You’re such a troublemaker, you know that?” Brian says, and Gerard lets out a breath. He’s not in trouble this time.

“I’ve been told,” he says, relief plain in his voice. “Sorry.”

“You’re mostly worth it.” He can hear the smile in Brian’s voice, and he wonders if, somehow, that might be the start of forgiveness.

He hopes so.

+

Brian calls Ryan’s cell about half an hour before they’re due onstage, and Ryan already knows what this is going to be about. 

“Hello?” he says, his voice already too harsh – he sees Spencer glance over at him, looking up from the magazine he’s pretending to read. Ryan just shakes his head.

“Ryan? It’s Brian,” Brian says.

“Hey, uh.” He doesn’t know what to say, exactly. 

“Gerard called me – he said something’s up, but wouldn’t tell me what. You have any idea what he might be talking about?” Brian sounds just this side of angry, frustrated maybe, though Ryan’s not quite sure. 

He balls his hands into fists in his lap, and he says, “Brent’s leaving. The band, I mean. Brent’s leaving the band.” Spencer’s not even pretending to read anymore, and Brendon is leaning against the wall, watching Ryan. Brent is looking at his lap, guilty, and Ryan half wants to shake him, say, _how the fuck can you do this to us?_ , but. Brent was honest, and Brent’s his _friend_. Brent doesn’t want to abandon them, even if he is.

“Okay,” Brian says, eventually. His voice is slow, like he’s calculating, and Ryan’s not sure what that means. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“We haven’t really had the chance to talk about it yet,” Ryan says. “It’s a hotel night tonight, though, so –”

“Okay. I’m going to fly down, okay? I’ll take a red-eye or something, see you tomorrow –” he cuts himself off, and Ryan can hear the soft sounds of him typing, probably bringing up flights and airfare prices and their schedule for the next few days. Ryan tries not to feel relieved.

“Yeah?” he asks, and Spencer raises his eyebrows at what sounds like hope in his voice, but Ryan doesn’t care.

“Yeah, Ryan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

+

That evening, Brent goes onstage with them for maybe the last time, ever. It’s a good show, a great one, maybe their best to date, and Ryan tries not to feel like he’s saying goodbye the whole way through. He looks over at Brent during their last song, and Brent is looking back at him, hair swept over his forehead and hanging, straggly, over his eyes. Ryan smiles at him, tries to say, _hey, I know, it’s not your fault_ , without actually having to say it. Brent smiles back at him, relief in the set of his shoulders, and Ryan thinks that maybe this won’t fuck up the band beyond repair, won’t fuck up their _friendships_ beyond repair. Maybe.

He’s not hoping, not yet, not ever, but he’s not steeling himself for the crash and burn, either.

Brent ducks his head back down over his bass, and Ryan plays his chords and doesn’t think about this night ever ending.

+

They’re all in one hotel room, two to a bed, and Ryan throws his stuff down next to Spencer’s without thinking about it. Brendon sits on the edge of the bed he’s going to be sharing with Brent, and watches as Spencer investigates the room. Brent excuses himself to shower and – Ryan’s relieved, but not surprised. He knows that if he were Brent, he wouldn’t want to listen to the conversation that has to happen now. 

The door is barely closed behind him when Brendon says, “I don’t want another bass player,” his voice utterly serious. He’s not looking away from them, meeting their eyes in turn. 

“Brendon,” Spencer starts, his voice that _we can’t always get what we want_ tone, neutral and organized.

“No,” Brendon says. “I know all the bass parts. I swear I do. I can play them.”

Ryan hasn’t even thought of that, and, given the silence on his part, Spencer hasn’t either. But – 

“What about the piano?” Ryan asks. “How can you do both?”

“We’ll figure it out – I can alternate during the songs, I think, or. I don’t know. We’ll figure it out. But face it, guys, we don’t have time to audition for another bassist, and we don’t know anyone who’d fill in.”

“I don’t want to do auditions,” Ryan says, thinking back to how hard it was for him to even accept Brendon, who knew Brent, before they were even signed. He’s not sure how he’d ever manage to find someone suitable and trust him or her at the same time.

“Okay,” Spencer says, and when Ryan glances at him, he would bet that Spencer is thinking the same thing he is.

“I can do it, I promise,” Brendon says, and he’s so earnest, his face so open, eyes wide and pleading, that Ryan can’t help but nod.

“I believe you,” Ryan says, and finds that he does.

+

Mikey had elected to share with Gerard, giving Frank the single, and Bob and Ray the other double. Frank, Gerard figures, is going to want to call Jamia the moment he finishes showering. They pretty much all agree that listening to Frank get it on with his girlfriend over the phone is not what they want out of life.

Gerard actually decides to shower, figuring that the hot water isn’t something he’s going to get again for a while, and by the time he’s done, Mikey’s already in his pajama pants, lying on his back on his bed. He’s got his arms under his head, staring blankly at the ceiling. Gerard pulls on a new pair of boxers and a relatively clean t-shirt before flopping down on his own bed. He shifts onto his side so that he can look over at Mikey, sharply angled in the half-light.

“What’re you thinking so hard about?” Gerard asks, reaching off the bed so he can grab at the sketchbook lying on top of his backpack. He’s left a pen wedged in the spiral-bound spine, and he pulls it out, opening to a fresh page. He wants to sketch Mikey’s face before he forgets the way the light cuts across his skin.

“Does Ryan remind you of me?” Mikey asks, and then continues, his voice quiet, but not soft. “Because we’re not that similar, you know.”

“I know,” Gerard says, even though the similarities are there – superficial, yes, but there all the same. “You’re Mikey, I couldn’t ever confuse you with anyone else.” Gerard laughs, but it’s the truth.

“I like to watch because I don’t always _want_ to say what I’m thinking,” Mikey says, almost like he’s talking to himself. “He has so much to say, he’s just afraid to say it.”

Gerard makes a vague noise of agreement, thin black lines on the page in front of him. He knows – he listens to Ryan’s words.

“I wonder what he’d say, if he didn’t think we’d shun him for it,” Mikey adds, a minute later. 

When Gerard glances back up at Mikey’s face, he’s smiling.

+

Gerard is out in front of the hotel, smoking, when Brian pulls up in a taxi. It’s early, yet, but Gerard couldn’t sleep, lying awake listening to Mikey breathe – he figured he’d get something out of his sleeplessness and wait for Brian to arrive. He’s gone through about five cigarettes so far, but he stubs out the one in his hand, half-finished, as Brian slides out of the cab. He looks sleep deprived and care worn, but the smile that tugs on the corner of his face isn’t fake. Gerard can tell.

“Hi,” Brian says, after he pays the taxi. He puts his duffle on the curb, and Gerard takes this as his cue to hug him. He’s not expecting anything back – he’s expecting the normal Brian response of ‘don’t lean in, but don’t pull away’ – so he’s surprised when Brian’s arms come up around his back, hooking into his shoulder blades and holding tight.

“Hi,” Gerard says, voice slightly muffled by the top of Brian’s head. He always forgets that he’s taller than Brian is – like Frank, Brian broadcasts enough personality to effectively seem much bigger than he actually is. He huffs and pulls away, taking a step back. Gerard smiles. “See, this is why you shouldn’t leave. We fall apart without you, you know.”

Brian laughs. “I can see that. How’re the kids holding up?”

“They’re keeping it together,” Gerard says, shrugging. He’d last seen Ryan after the show, and he’d been pale and wide-eyed, but Gerard can’t blame him. 

“Okay, I guess I can’t hope for anything better than that,” he says, sighing and scrubbing a hand through his hair. Gerard can see in his face that’s preparing himself to march right up to Panic’s room and knock on the door, so Gerard puts a hand on his arm, tugging until Brian looks at him.

“You have a little time. Breakfast first?” Gerard asks. Brian opens his mouth, probably about to say, _I can’t, I have to get this over with_. “Look, just have some coffee or something. You look like you’re about the keel over, dude.” He can see Brian processing, rearranging his schedule to fit this in, finding the time.

“Okay,” Brian says, finally. “But you’re buying.”

“Fine, man, whatever it takes,” Gerard says. He means it.

+

When Ryan wakes up, Spencer and Brendon are gone, and Brent’s sitting up in his bed, watching the television.

“They went to get coffee and stuff,” Brent says, and doesn’t look over. Ryan sighs. He pulls himself up, leaning against the headboard and tugging at his t-shirt until it’s straight. Brent’s not looking over at him, and Ryan knows, he _knows_ that he’s a really awful friend, and that Brent doesn’t usually hold it against him, but Brent kind of has a reason to, right now.

“I’m sorry I’m such a shitty friend,” he manages to say, eventually. Apologies aren’t something he’s ever been particularly good at, but he knows that they’re necessary sometimes. As much as he might feel like Brent is abandoning them – as much as Brent _is_ abandoning them – it’s not exactly Brent’s fault.

Brent laughs, though, softly, and says, “Dude, you’re Ryan. I knew how this would sound to you.” He pauses, and looks over at Ryan, his expression something close to amused. “You’re actually taking it much better than I thought you would. I was expecting there to be yelling.”

“Came kind of close for a while there,” Ryan says, and he doesn’t know how he deserved these people who understand how his mind works and don’t blame him for it. “Would’ve been a mistake, though. I’ve known you too long for that.”

“Yeah,” Brent says. “Want to pick the channel? I think there’re cartoons.”

Ryan laughs – he’s actually surprised they’d managed to have as serious a conversation as they had.

“Sure,” he says, and waits for Brendon and Spencer to get back.

+

Gerard wonders if he’s violating some confidentiality clause in his contract or something, sitting here listening to this conversation. He figures probably not, or else Brian would’ve kicked him out, but it still doesn’t seem quite like he should be here. He had seen them get signed, but he’s still not Panic’s manager or contract liaison. He takes a sip of his coffee, and tries his best to remain invisible.

Brian had called Ryan’s cell halfway into breakfast – Gerard was, at the time, almost surprised it had taken him that long. Panic stumbled into the restaurant about fifteen minutes later. Gerard’s about halfway through his stack of pancakes, and on his third cup of coffee, while Brian has yet to really start on his eggs. He’s been mainlining coffee since they sat down, though, and Gerard thinks that he looks more aware, if still slightly ragged around the edges.

“We can do it,” Brendon says, holding a Starbucks cup between both hands. Gerard’s not really surprised that, out of all of them, Brendon is the one with the strongest feelings about the music.

“Look,” Spencer says, “if we ever get to the point where we need another musician, we’ll hire someone for the tour. You can help us with that, right?”

Brian nods, but doesn’t look exactly happy about it. “It’s just going to fuck you guys over for a few shows, until you get everything figured out.“

“So we’ll fuck up,” Ryan says, speaking up for the first time. “It’s still what we want to do.”

Brian sighs. “Whatever,” he says. “You know I’ll help however I can.”

“Yeah, Brian,” Gerard says. “We know.”

“You shut up,” Brian says, and points a finger at Gerard, who grins. “Fine, have it your way. No auditions. Start figuring out your changes, we don’t have much rehearsal time between now and sound check.”

“Yes, sir,” Brendon says, and laughs.

+

Brent drives to the next venue, so that Ryan, Spencer, and Brendon can sit in the back with their instruments on their laps, figuring out what’s going to have to change. 

“So after the verse, the piano starts up, right?” Spencer asks, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. It slides back out, falling in front of his eyes and he makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, “but the bass part doesn’t cut out.”

“The piano’s more important,” Ryan says, firmly. “We’ll keep the piano onstage. Think you can switch mid-song?”

“Uh,” Brendon says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Well, I’m gonna have to, right? So I’ll just say ‘yes’, and we’ll find out at sound check.”

Ryan snorts. “That’s gonna be so much fun,” he says, and plucks out the chords to _Camisado_ on his guitar.

“Can you just slide the bass so it’s on your back? Y’know, like a rifle or one of those Japanese swords or something,” Spencer says, raising an eyebrow. He’s eyeing the bass stretched out across Brendon’s thighs – he hadn’t brought his own, so he’s using Brent’s, for the moment.

“Huh,” Brendon says, thoughtfully. “That might actually work.”

“Just don’t get tangled in your amp wire and fall over,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, Mom,” Brendon says, voice laced with disgust.

“Cool,” Spencer says.

+

Panic’s first night sans Brent is – not so good. Gerard stands offstage with Mikey, something like nervousness roiling in the pit of his stomach. Mikey’s chin is sharp in the hollow of his shoulder, and Gerard’s glad that he’s here for this. This is one thing they’ve never had a problem with – they had Bob soon enough after Matt left that it wasn’t a problem, and if any of the rest of them are sick, well, they have Cortez hanging around being awesome. Switching the line-up mid-tour isn’t something that’s ever easy, and playing minus a band member is worse.

Ryan’s face looks almost as blank as it had the first night, and he glances over his shoulder at Spencer, before looking offstage. Gerard can feel Mikey nod and smile at Ryan – Ryan manages a nod, but Gerard’s betting he won’t smile again until their set is over, if then.

Spencer counts them off, and Brendon wasn’t lying – he knows the bass lines by heart, his fingers just as confident on the strings as they are on the piano keys. The shift from bass to piano is clumsy the first time, when Brendon catches himself in the elbow with his bass and misses a line of lyrics and his piano entrance. Gerard can feel Mikey wince, and he echoes the sentiment. 

Ryan glances over to make sure Brendon’s got it, and Brendon is standing, hunched over his piano, still managing to exude stage presence, even with the fuck up.

It’s not so good, but – it could be much worse. Gerard can tell it’ll get better.

+

“Elbow okay?” Ryan asks, immediately after they leave the stage. Brendon’s rubbing at it, idly with his hand, and he looks up at Ryan’s voice.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. Damn, I can’t believe I _did_ that.” He sounds frustrated with himself, and Ryan understands the impulse – onstage, no one is more of a perfectionist than Brendon.

“It’ll get better,” Spencer says, grasping at the back of Brendon’s neck, sweat and all. “Cut yourself some slack.”

Brendon shrugs, and rubs at his elbow again.

“I’d rather we were better now,” he says, and his voice is petulant in that way he is when he’s upset with himself. 

“Can’t always get what you want,” Ryan says. And doesn’t he know it.

+

It’s a slow thing, almost unnoticeable, at first, but Brendon gets used to the weight of the bass in his hands, gets used to rhythm of the strings, exactly how hard he has the push it to get it all the way around his body, hanging heavy and secure against his back. He plays the piano like he always did, like the keys are an extension of his fingers, hammer striking string, perfect and brittle.

Ryan gets used to looking over to the other side of the stage and not seeing Brent, gets used to looking up behind the sound booth to see Brent’s head bent over the controls, hair in his face like it would be onstage. He gets used to Brendon pressing up against him for attention and not being able to look over his shoulder and see Brent smiling at him.

Spencer never falters. Ryan doesn’t thank him for it – he doesn’t have to.

Brent still helps them drive, still shares their hotel rooms when they have them, still pitches in for Starbucks. The difference is, now when they get to the venue, Brent disappears backstage with the techs, trying to glean as much as he can from them while he still has the chance. Ryan thinks he’s good at it – he doesn’t complain about carrying the heavy stuff, and he catches on quickly.

They have something like two weeks left.

+

“Yeah, they’re okay,” Gerard says into his phone. “Much better than the first night.” Brian sighs with something that’s not quite relief and not exactly exasperation.

“Good,” he says. Gerard can hear him typing, but Brian’s always been one to multitask whenever possible.

“You knew they would be,” Gerard says. “Otherwise you would’ve been harder on them.”’ 

Brian snorts. “I’m glad you have such faith in me, Gerard.” He’s not serious, Gerard can tell, but Gerard wasn’t joking.

“You’re a hardass, Brian. We all know it. It’s why we like you so much.” He laughs.

“I think you’re overestimating how much influence I actually have,” Brian says, self-deprecating. 

“I think you’re _under_ estimating how much influence you have, dude.”

Brian laughs, and Gerard almost asks, right then, but then Brian says, "Whatever, asshole. Go back to your band, I have work to do.”

Gerard sort of wonders when Brian’s going to realize that he’s band, too.

+

Ryan gets a text from Mikey about halfway to the next venue. It says, _hey i got your number from brian. i hope you don’t mind_

Ryan just blinks down at it for a few seconds, half-disbelieving, and then types, _i don’t mind – what’s up?_

It takes Mikey seven minutes to finally text him back; Ryan spends the time staring at the lit screen of his phone, the feel of the moving van under his thighs.

_nothing. the bus is boring. you know you guys are getting better, right?_

Ryan bites his lip. He thinks of a few things he could type, _you mean it?_ , and _i guess_ , and _why do you care?_ , but they’re all too needy or too abrasive.

 _i know,_ he says, finally, even though he doesn’t. _but i’m glad you think so_

 _your album is going to be awesome_ , Mikey says.

Ryan’s not always so sure, but – he’s glad that someone thinks so.

+

“Why’d you forgive me, Frank?” Gerard asks, sitting next to Frank on the couch in the lounge. Mikey’s texting in the kitchenette, and he looks over, but doesn’t say anything. He’s been texting a lot the past few days, but he won’t tell Gerard anything about it. Gerard is incredibly curious.

“Because you’re Gee,” Frank says, like it’s obvious, and Gerard has no idea why it should be.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he asks, confusion clear in his tone.

“Look – we understand how you work, Gee. You did some shitty things, but self-destruction is different than lashing out, or violence, and. Well, mostly we were worried.” He shrugs. “You got better, so we forgave you.”

“It can’t be that easy,” Gerard says, biting on the skin of one cuticle. Mikey snorts.

“Sometimes it just is, man. Live with it.” Frank nudges him in the side with his elbow, and Gerard squirms out of the way.

“Fine, fine,” he says. “I get it.”

“See that you do,” Frank says. Gerard just shakes his head.

+

 _see you after the show, maybe?_ Mikey texts, as they pull up to the venue. Ryan’s been texting with him pretty much daily for the past week, and he’s not sure what to think, exactly, except that, for some reason, Mikey Way thinks he’s worthwhile.

Spencer sits next to him on the seat in the van, and perches his head on Ryan’s shoulder.

“You gonna go?” he asks, raised eyebrow in his tone. Ryan doesn’t know, so he just shrugs with his free shoulder, and brushes his hair out of his face. He wants to, but – what will they talk about? How will Ryan even know what to say?

Spencer snorts, probably reading the tension in his shoulders, and reaches over to pull the phone out of his hands.

 _definitely_ , Spencer types. _i’ll see you after_

“There,” he says, finality in his tone. “No excuses.”

Ryan just leans back against Spencer and hums softly under his breath.

 _cool. my bus. night of the living dead. it’s classic_ , Mikey texts, and Spencer laughs.

“You’re going to be scared shitless,” he says. Ryan’s never been that big on horror movies – he’s willing to try anything once, though.

 _it’s on_ , Spencer texts for him, and then hands back his phone.

“You’d be lost without me,” Spencer says, and Ryan laughs.

“True,” he says.

+

Gerard can’t sleep. He can hear the vague sounds of the movie Ryan, Mikey, and Ray are watching in the lounge, but he very much wants to be sleeping. Frank’s snoring softly across the way, his curtain pulled tightly closed. Gerard can’t stop thinking about forgiveness – whether he has it, if he deserves it. He should be sleeping, but instead he has his phone in one hand, Brian’s number on the screen.

He calls before he can make himself stop, and Brian’s actually in the same time zone as them, at the moment. It’s 4:30 AM, and – the last time Gerard did this, he was drunk off his ass and depressed, wondering if he should shoot himself in the head and where he’d get a gun – how he should minimize mess and whether that really mattered.

“H’lo?” Brian’s voice is husky and rough, an octave deeper with the webbing of sleep, and Gerard remembers this, remembers it. He shivers.

“Brian?” he asks, and he can hear the breath Brian draws in. He wonders if it’s an _oh shit, not again_ kind of reaction, so he just says, “I’m not drunk. I’m not – I just can’t sleep.”

“G’rard,” Brian asks, “what time’s it?” Gerard can imagine him squinting at the clock in the dark, hair mussed with sleep.

“Past 4:30. Sorry, sorry, just. Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?” He asks the question too softly, and Brian doesn’t say anything for a while. Gerard almost wonders if he’s fallen back asleep.

“Not if you keep calling me at 4:30 I won’t,” Brian says, sluggish, and Gerard’s not sure if it’s a joke. It’s a cruel one, if it is, but Brian’s not naturally a nice guy, and it’s fucking early, so Gerard thinks he can cut him some slack.

“Think about it,” he says. “Um, I’ll let you sleep. Night, Brian.”

“Night, Gerard, asshole,” Brian says. The line goes quiet, like Brian’s put his phone down without hanging up, so Gerard shuts his phone.

He’s kind of a dumb, masochistic fuck. He supposes he should be used to this by now.

+

Ryan wakes up around 5:00, according to his cell phone clock, and he’s slumped on the couch, his head propped up against Mikey’s arm. The TV is still on, the DVD menu flashing over and over on rotation – apparently they finished the movie, although Ryan doesn’t remember half of it. Ray is curled up, asleep, on the floor, and Ryan can feel Mikey breathing.

He wonders if he should move, go back to his band. Spencer, at least, knows where he is, and Brendon and Brent won’t be worried if Spencer isn’t, so. He’s in no great hurry. He’s warm, and Mikey’s more comfortable to lean on than his sharp angles might make him seem.

Yawning, Ryan curls up a little tighter, and goes back to sleep.

+

Gerard wakes up with his phone curled up in his fist and four missed calls. He doesn’t remember why his phone is on silent, but they’re all from Brian and – yeah, shit.

He scrambles out of bed, grabbing his cigarettes and lighter and almost running out of the bus. There are sleeping figures in the lounge, but he doesn’t care, and doesn’t try to be quiet. His bare feet hit gravel and dead grass, hot pavement, but he doesn’t stop until he’s sitting on a grassy bank, the bus far enough away that he can’t see movement through the windows. He lights up hurriedly, sucking in smoke, and wonders if he should’ve waited for coffee. Maybe.

He calls Brian.

“You called me,” he says when he hears the phone pick up. “You called me like, four times.”

“Yeah, well,” Brian says, and he sounds _amused_. “I wanted to get in touch with you.”

“Oh,” Gerard says, and sucks in another drag from his cigarette.

“You’re a dumbfuck, Gerard,” Brian says, with no preamble. Gerard thinks he used up all his preamble at whatever-o-clock in the morning, when he called Brian for no reason.

“Brian –” he starts, but Brian just cuts him off with a snort.

“Seriously. Will I ever forgive you? What kind of a question is that?”

“Uh,” Gerard starts. “A sincere one?” It is, it is, and why is this so funny to Brian?

“Gerard. I forgave you a long time ago. I forgave you when you were still avoiding talking to me, you asshole.“

“Oh,” Gerard says. “Uh.” He feels like that’s all he’s said for the past five minutes, but – but. “Seriously?”

“You’re an idiot,” Brian says, and actually starts laughing.

“I guess so,” Gerard says, but he doesn’t feel bad about it. He doesn’t feel bad at all.

+

Ryan’s sitting on the couch in My Chem’s bus, eating Lucky Charms straight out of the box when Gerard comes in from the outside, smelling like cigarettes and grinning so wide it looks like it hurts, holding his cell phone out. Ryan hadn’t noticed him leaving the bus in the first place, but he hasn’t been awake that long. He glances over at Mikey, who’s sitting next to him, the box of cereal between them, but Mikey just shrugs, chewing on freeze-dried marshmallows.

“I thought I saw you in here,” Gerard says. “Brian’s on the phone.” 

Ryan takes the phone in his hands, tentatively, and says, “Hello?” into the mic.

“Yo,” Brian says. He sounds amused. “Gerard wake you up?”

“Not really,” Ryan says, and looks over at Mikey again, who raises his eyebrows. “I was up.”

“Cool,” Brian says. “I’m just giving you guys a head’s up. You think you’d be up for recording after the tour is over? I’ve heard tell that the demos have been selling well.”

“I – yeah,” Ryan says, blinking. “No, that would be – really cool.” Spencer, he knows, has been gunning to start recording, just to have something real to sell, and Brendon won’t care as long as they get to tour again after. Ryan half figured this tour would be the end of it, although he knows it’s a dumb thought. Brian wouldn’t let that happen, not after all the work he’d put into them in the first place. “I mean, I should probably check with Brendon and Spencer, but I can’t imagine –” he trails off, shrugging, even though he knows Brian can’t see it.

“Cool. I’ll book you some time, okay? Talk to your guys.” Brian definitely sounds amused, probably at the tone of Ryan’s voice.

“Okay,” Ryan says. “I will.”

“Now, mind handing me back over to Gerard?”

Ryan hands the phone back, and sits on the couch, blinking for a few seconds. He’s pretty sure Gerard leaves again, but he’s not really paying that much attention.

“Ryan?” Mikey asks, voice something like curiosity and something like worry. He still doesn’t have all of Mikey’s tones down, but he’s getting closer.

“We’re recording the album. After the tour we’re off to the studio.” Ryan looks up, and he feels a little shell-shocked, stunned.

Mikey smiles, then, wide and bright, and Ryan can feel the force of it in his chest like pressure against his rib cage. He breathes in, slowly.

“Awesome,” Mikey says, like he means it. Ryan believes him. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

+

Their last performance, Ryan looks out into the audience, at the sea of faces upturned toward him, and sees mouths moving in tandem with Brendon’s voice and his words. He sees made up girls and skinny boys singing along like they know they words, and maybe they _do_ , maybe they do. 

Ryan turns to Brendon as he slides the bass behind his back, stepping up to the piano, and Brendon leans forward to sing into his mic, bending his knees to bob along with the rhythm created by Spencer’s palms and his fingertips, Ryan’s chords through the amps.

Their faces turned toward the flashing lights, their feet stomping against the ground, the audience, _their_ audience, sways under the force of the words Ryan wrote on his bed in his house, with his father downstairs and Spencer on the other end of the phone line.

Ryan can feel the bass in his bones, in the twining lines of his veins, and tomorrow they are off to the studio, to capture this on paper and tape, and he thinks, he thinks, _this is it_.

This is it.


End file.
